Chapter 9 - The Confession of the North WingThe panic room beneath the north wing was less of a bunker and more of a high-tech fortress, lined with computer screens, secure communication arrays, and velvet armchairs.
Clara sat on the edge of a leather sofa, holding a cup of water while her mother rested in the medical bay next door under the care of a private physician.
The heavy steel door hissed shut, sealing them inside.
Dominic walked over to a wet bar, poured two glasses of scotch, and handed one to Clara. She didn't take it. Her hands were still shaking.
"I didn't know they would track you to the hospital," Dominic said quietly, breaking the silence. His voice lacked its usual arrogant edge; it sounded heavy, worn down by years of relentless warfare.
"You used me," Clara said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. "You knew your enemies were watching this house. You hired a random, desperate girl from Cicero because you knew they wouldn't expect you to hire a civilian. I was bait."
Dominic didn't deny it. He took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes meeting hers with unblinking candor.
"Yes," Dominic admitted plainly. "When the first seventeen nannies were compromised, I needed someone unpredictable. Someone who didn't belong to the corporate world, someone who couldn't be bought off by my rivals, and someone who was desperate enough to stay when things got violent."
Clara stood up, her eyes flashing with pure rage. "You put my family in danger! My brother is in that hospital!"
"And your brother's hospital bills are being paid in full as we speak, along with a security detail that ensures no one will ever touch him again," Dominic countered sharply, stepping closer to her. "Miss Reed, look around you. For three years, I have fought a shadow war against the men who murdered my sister. They want the boy because Noah is the only living witness to the assassination. If they get him, he dies. If I let him go to normal foster care, he dies."
Clara stared at him, the anger slowly draining out of her, replaced by a devastating, profound sorrow.
She thought of Noah—the terrified four-year-old boy hiding under tables, holding a heavy iron poker, turning a blood-stained music box because it was the only thing left of a world that had been violently ripped away from him.
"He's not your son," Clara whispered, the realization finally solidifying in her mind.
"No," Dominic said softly, looking down at his glass. "He's my nephew. But in this house, blood doesn't matter. Survival does."
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Suddenly, the heavy steel door clicked.
Mrs. Hargrove walked in, her expression unusually pale. "Mr. Vale. You need to see this. The encrypted hard drive we recovered from the lead mercenary... it just finished decrypting."
