I turned around, frantically grabbing Leo by the arm.
“Run,” I mouthed silently to him.
I pulled my son toward the only hiding place left in the gutted suite—the small, hidden ventilation closet behind the old mahogany bookshelves.
We slipped inside the narrow, pitch-black space just as the heavy main doors swung open, casting a long, terrifying shadow across the carpet.
The darkness inside the narrow ventilation closet was suffocating.
I pulled Leo down to the floor, wrapping my arms tightly around his small body. I pressed his face into my shoulder, burying his mouth in the damp fabric of my hoodie to muffle his breathing.
The heavy main doors of the suite clicked shut.
Through the thin wooden slats of the closet door, I had a fractured, narrow view of the massive room.
Marcus walked into the suite. He threw his expensive suit jacket over the back of a glass chair and walked straight to a small crystal decanter on a side table. He poured himself a heavy glass of amber scotch.
His face, usually so polished and charming in public, looked tight, harsh, and deeply annoyed.
A few seconds later, the suite doors beeped and opened again.
The sharp, distinct clicking of expensive high heels echoed across the hardwood floor.
A woman walked into my line of sight. She was wearing a stunning crimson trench coat, her dark hair perfectly blown out, shaking the rain off a designer umbrella.
It was Elena.
My sister.
“Did Vance sign the preliminary agreement?” Elena asked. Her voice was sharp, all business, completely devoid of the warm sisterly affection she had shown me in the hospital.
“He signed it,” Marcus said, taking a long drink of his scotch. “The board votes at 8:00 AM tomorrow. As long as Vance has the majority shareholder proxy, the sale goes through. The money gets wired to the Cayman accounts by noon.”
Elena sighed, walking over to the glass desk. She leaned against it, crossing her arms.
“And what about the loose end?” she asked coldly.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs. I knew exactly who the 'loose end' was.
“The tracker on her rental car shows she’s already in the city,” Marcus said, rubbing his temples in frustration. “She drove straight through the storm. She’s probably parked somewhere right now, trying to figure out how to get to Thomas.”
“You told me Thomas was handled,” Elena snapped.
“He is handled,” Marcus fired back. “I fired him this morning. His security clearances are revoked. Even if she finds him, he has no access to the building.”
Elena didn’t look convinced. She began pacing in front of the desk, her crimson coat swaying.
“This is getting too messy, Marcus,” she said, her voice rising in panic. “The first accident was supposed to be fatal. You promised me she wouldn't survive the crash. Instead, she’s in a coma for a month, wakes up, and starts asking questions. We had to forge an entire psychiatric profile just to keep her locked up in New York!”
I squeezed my eyes shut, fresh tears burning my face.
The betrayal felt like a physical knife twisting in my stomach. Elena hadn't just been complicit. She had been angry that I survived.
“The brake lines on the rental car are completely degraded,” Marcus said, his voice deadly calm. “The mechanic used a slow-drip acid compound. The more she drives, the more the fluid leaks. She’s driving a heavy sedan through a massive rainstorm in downtown Chicago. It’s only a matter of time before she hits a red light and goes straight into an intersection. It will look exactly like what the doctors predicted—a reckless, erratic suicide attempt by a mentally unstable woman.”
Leo whimpered softly against my shoulder. I pressed my hand tighter over his ear, praying to God he didn't understand what they were saying.
“What about Leo?” Elena asked.
There was a brief, terrible silence.
“He’s in the car with her,” Marcus said flatly.
Elena stopped pacing. She looked at Marcus, her face hardening.
“You’re willing to let your own son die to get this money?” she asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Marcus poured himself another drink. He didn't look at her.
“Leo is Dani’s child,” Marcus said, his tone entirely void of emotion. “He looks like her. He acts like her. He has her father’s eyes. If he survives, the trust fund automatically transfers to him when he turns eighteen. The money gets locked in probate for over a decade. I’m not waiting ten years, Elena. We take everything tomorrow, or we take nothing.”
A sickening wave of absolute horror washed over me.
He didn't care about me. He didn't care about my father's legacy. He didn't even care about his own flesh and blood. He just wanted the money, and he was willing to butcher his entire family to get it.