Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Was Dead
Vincent stared at the photograph until his hands began to shake.
Alina had never seen him afraid.
Angry, yes.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
Never afraid.
“Sofia died eleven years ago.”
Marco said nothing.
Vincent looked again.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Older now.
But unmistakable.
They went to the clinic the next morning.
The woman had already left.
The clinic director claimed no record of her existed.
Vincent placed the photograph on his desk.
“Try again.”
The director’s confidence collapsed.
Her name at the clinic was Elena Rossi.
She had been receiving neurological treatment.
“Memory problems?” Alina asked.
The doctor nodded.
“Severe trauma.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“What trauma?”
“Head injury. Years ago.”
“Who pays?”
The doctor refused.
Vincent didn’t threaten him.
He simply waited.
Silence did the work.
“Voss Medical Foundation.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Sofia had survived.
Someone had hidden her.
For eleven years.
Why?
They located her in a small house outside the city.
Vincent went alone to the door.
Alina remained in the vehicle.
Sofia opened it.
She stared at him.
Nothing.
Vincent whispered her name.
“Sofia.”
She looked frightened.
“I’m Elena.”
His heart broke quietly.
He showed her an old photograph.
Their engagement picture.
Sofia touched it.
Her fingers trembled.
“I dream about this.”
Vincent could barely speak.
“About me?”
“A hallway.”
She touched his face in the photograph.
“And a baby crying.”
Vincent froze.
“You were pregnant.”
Sofia’s eyes filled.
“I know.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“I don’t remember.”
Vincent’s world tilted.
Doctors had told him both Sofia and the child died at the scene.
But if Sofia survived…
He brought her to the estate under protection.
Mia liked her immediately.
Children often accepted complicated truths faster than adults.
Sofia sat with Mia on the floor.
The little girl showed her the replacement truck.
“Mr. Vincent bought it.”
Sofia smiled faintly.
“He used to hate shopping.”
Vincent stopped in the doorway.
A memory.
Small.
But real.
Sofia looked up.
“I remembered that.”
Vincent sat beside her.
Over the next days, fragments returned.
The crash.
A man opening the damaged car.
A needle.
A hospital room.
Samuel.
And a baby.
Sofia woke screaming on the third night.
Vincent ran in.
She grabbed his arm.
“My baby lived.”
He froze.
“What?”
“I heard him.”
“Him?”
“A boy.”
Vincent’s knees nearly failed.
Sofia sobbed.
“They took him.”
Alina stood in the doorway.
Vincent looked at her.
Eleven years.
He had a son.
Possibly alive.
The search began immediately.
Birth records had been altered.
Hospital logs disappeared.
But Lucia Ruiz had worked at the same hospital.
That was why Lucia had been involved.
She had known.
Alina searched her mother’s remaining belongings.
Inside an old cookbook, she found a handwritten note.
S.R. baby transferred 4:17 a.m.
Male.
Stable.
Protected under L.
L.
Lantern.
Vincent’s father had hidden his grandson.
Not from Vincent.
From Samuel.
Cole knew part of the protocol.
“Lantern relocated endangered family members.”
“Where?”
“Only Antonio knew.”
Vincent nearly lost control.
Then Mia wandered into the room.
She pointed at the number.
“Four-one-seven.”
Everyone stared.
The apartment.
Daniel’s hidden drive.
Not an apartment number by coincidence.
A clue.
Vincent reopened Daniel’s recovered files.
One document was labeled 417.
Inside was a school enrollment record.
A boy named Lucas Reed.
Age eleven.
Guardian: Margaret Reed.
Location: two hours north.
Vincent stopped breathing.
They drove there.
A small house.
A bicycle on the lawn.
Vincent approached the door.
An elderly woman answered.
When he gave his name, she began crying.
“I wondered when you’d come.”
“Lucas?”
She nodded.
“He’s at school.”
Vincent gripped the railing.
“Is he my son?”
Margaret handed him a sealed letter.
Antonio Marchetti’s handwriting.
Vincent opened it.
If you have found Lucas, then Samuel knows enough that hiding him is no longer protection.
He is Sofia’s child.
He is yours.
Vincent sat down.
Alina stood beside him.
For eleven years, Vincent had believed his family ended before it began.
Now he had a son.
Alive.
The school called Margaret before they could leave.
She answered.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Vincent stood.
Margaret lowered the phone.
“Lucas never arrived in class.”
Vincent’s blood turned cold.
Then his own phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
An eleven-year-old boy sat inside a car.
Behind him was Samuel Marchetti.
May you like
And beneath the photograph were four words:
BRING ME THE GIRL.
