Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Was Buried
Declan refused to let Mara go to Ashland Avenue.
Mara refused to stay behind.
They argued for seven minutes.
Declan lost.
Not because Mara was louder.
Because she asked one question he could not answer.
“If that woman knows about my baby, where exactly would you like me to hide?”
Twenty minutes later, three black SUVs moved north through Chicago.
Mara sat beside Declan in the middle vehicle.
The charred ultrasound rested inside a clear evidence sleeve on his lap.
He had placed it there carefully.
Almost reverently.
She noticed.
She said nothing.
The television engagement still sat between them like a third passenger.
The street outside became quieter as they approached Mara’s old neighborhood.
Her apartment building had changed little.
Red brick.
Narrow balconies.
A broken security light above the entrance.
Declan’s men surrounded the block.
“No one goes inside until I do,” Declan said.
Mara looked at him.
“You mean until we do.”
“No.”
“We finished this argument.”
“I allowed you in the vehicle.”
“That isn’t winning.”
“It was a strategic compromise.”
“That is what men say when they lose.”
One of his guards hid a smile.
Declan gave him a look.
The smile disappeared.
Mara almost enjoyed that.
Then the upstairs curtain moved.
Everything became serious.
Someone was inside.
Declan entered first.
Mara followed between two guards.
Her old apartment door stood open.
The smell hit her immediately.
Lavender.
She stopped.
“What?” Declan asked.
“My mother used that perfume.”
His attention sharpened.
“Your mother died when you were seventeen.”
“I know.”
Mara stepped inside.
The apartment had been reconstructed.
Not renovated.
Reconstructed.
Her old couch sat against the wall.
A cheap wooden table stood beneath the window.
Photographs rested along the mantel.
Mara walked closer.
They were hers.
Childhood photographs.
College.
Her mother.
Her father.
Pictures she had lost years ago when a storage unit flooded.
“How did someone get these?”
Declan examined the room.
“This place is staged.”
“For me?”
“Maybe.”
A floorboard creaked down the hall.
Declan drew his weapon.
“Stay here.”
Mara ignored him.
They moved toward the bedroom.
The door was half open.
Declan pushed it.
A woman stood near the window.
She looked perhaps thirty-five.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
One hand over her stomach.
But she was not pregnant.
The photograph had been altered.
Declan lowered his weapon.
“Elena?”
The woman looked at him.
For a moment neither sibling spoke.
Then Elena whispered:
“You got old.”
Declan crossed the room.
He stopped inches from her.
Mara expected an embrace.
Instead, Declan touched Elena’s face as though checking whether she was real.
“You died.”
“No.”
“I buried you.”
“You buried someone.”
“Whose body?”
“I don’t know.”
Declan stepped back.
Anger replaced shock.
“Eight years.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had eight years of choices.”
“They were watching you.”
“Who?”
Elena looked at Mara.
“You brought her.”
“She knows.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
Mara stepped forward.
“Then tell me.”
Elena studied her.
“You’re pregnant.”
Declan moved instantly between them.
“My sister is not a threat.”
Elena gave him a sad smile.
“You still do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide who the threat is before you know the story.”
Declan’s jaw tightened.
“Start talking.”
Elena sat.
Eight years of secrets came apart slowly.
Their father had indeed ordered Elena’s death.
But Thomas Rourke had betrayed him.
Not Elena.
Rourke helped Elena escape.
He switched identities with a pregnant woman who had died in a car accident, bribed a coroner, and arranged a burial.
Elena’s baby survived.
Mara looked toward her.
“Where is your child?”
Elena’s eyes filled.
“I don’t know.”
Declan froze.
“What happened?”
“Someone took him.”
“Him?”
“My son.”
Elena swallowed.
“Gabriel.”
Mara felt her chest tighten.
“How old?”
“Seven.”
Declan paced away.
“Who took him?”
“The same people who have been watching Mara.”
“You know who they are?”
“I know who started it.”
“Serrano?”
“No.”
“Caruso?”
“No.”
Elena looked directly at her brother.
“Father.”
Declan laughed once.
“Our father is dead.”
“I watched them bury someone once too.”
That silenced him.
Elena opened a drawer.
Inside lay files, photographs, financial records.
She placed one photograph on the bed.
Antonio Voss.
Declan’s father.
Older than Mara remembered from newspaper photographs.
But unmistakable.
The image was dated fourteen months ago.
“He’s alive?” Mara asked.
Elena nodded.
Declan stared at the photograph.
His father had supposedly died five years earlier.
A heart attack.
Closed casket.
Private burial.
Everything in Declan’s life suddenly seemed constructed from bodies that were not inside their graves.
“Why?” he whispered.
“Control,” Elena said. “Father never intended to surrender the organization. He wanted you to believe you inherited it while he rebuilt something larger underneath you.”
“And Gabriel?”
“Leverage.”
“Mara?”
“Leverage.”
Declan looked at Mara.
Then her stomach.
The meaning was clear.
Another Voss heir.
Another child to control.
Elena continued.
“He learned about Mara months ago.”
“But she wasn’t pregnant months ago.”
“He knew she mattered.”
“Then why wait?”
“Because killing her wasn’t the goal.”
Mara frowned.
“What was?”
Elena looked at her.
“Turning Declan into our father.”
Declan’s eyes narrowed.
Elena explained.
Antonio Voss believed love made powerful men weak.
He had spent decades engineering betrayals.
Friends against friends.
Brothers against brothers.
Children against parents.
If Mara died, Declan would retaliate.
If Declan started a war with Serrano and Caruso, hundreds could die.
When the organizations collapsed, Antonio would return.
The old king reclaiming the ruins.
“The engagement ruined his plan,” Elena said.
Declan looked surprised.
“How?”
“Father expected you to isolate Mara. Instead you publicly allied with Caruso.”
“So he exposed the pregnancy.”
“Yes.”
Mara hugged herself.
“Who gave him my medical records?”
Elena hesitated.
“That’s the part you won’t like.”
Declan stepped forward.
“Who?”
“Someone inside this room.”
Every guard raised his weapon.
Mara’s heart hammered.
Elena shook her head.
“Not your men.”
She pointed toward Mara.
“Her.”
Mara stared.
“What?”
“Not intentionally.”
Elena reached into the drawer and removed a medical consent form.
Mara recognized her signature.
Northwestern Memorial.
“This is from today.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get it?”
“Look at the authorization section.”
Mara read.
EMERGENCY CONTACT.
DECLAN VOSS.
Beneath it, an automated data-sharing authorization tied to a private medical concierge network.
Declan swore.
“What?”
“My security company owns that network.”
Mara looked at him.
“So your own system leaked it?”
“Yes.”
“Who has access?”
Declan’s expression became grim.
“Only four people.”
“Names.”
“Me. My head of security. My attorney.”
“And the fourth?”
Declan hesitated.
“Vivienne.”
Mara stared.
The blonde woman on television.
The woman wearing his ring.
Elena stood.
“You need to understand something. Vivienne isn’t just part of the engagement.”
Declan looked toward her.
“What did she do?”
Before Elena could answer, the apartment lights went out.
Gunfire exploded downstairs.
Someone screamed.
Declan pulled Mara against the wall.
His phone lit with an incoming call.
Vivienne.
He answered.
But the voice on the other end belonged to an older man.
“Hello, son.”
Declan’s face drained of color.
Antonio Voss laughed softly.
May you like
Then he said:
“Bring me the mother of my grandchild.”
