Chapter 1 - The Shattered IllusionThe diamond on Camille’s finger sparkled mockingly in the Chicago sun, flashing a blinding light that hurt my eyes. Five carats. A monument to a merger disguised as a marriage, a political alliance orchestrated by my grandfather, Salvatore Vale, to cement our syndicate's control over the Midwest shipping lanes.
"Adrian? Are you even listening to me? Do you want white roses or blush peonies for the altar?" Camille’s voice pierced through the ringing in my ears.
"Pardon," I muttered, my voice dangerously hollow. My gaze remained locked on the spot near the hot dog cart where Maya had just vanished into the sea of tourists.
Triplets. Three years old. Gray eyes.
The math hit me with the force of a freight train. Four years ago—the exact night I cornered Maya in our penthouse, hurled fabricated insults, and forced her to take a bag of unmarked cash and disappear—she must have already been carrying them. I had tortured myself every single day since, drowning my soul in blood, ledgers, and protection rackets, believing my cruelty was a shield. I thought I had saved her from a bullet in the dark.
Instead, I had sentenced her to single motherhood, poverty, and isolation, while I built a throne on a foundation of lies.
"Adrian, you're sweating," Camille said, her manicured fingers reaching out to touch my lapel. Her eyes narrowed as she followed my line of sight. "What is wrong with you? Who are you looking at?"
"No one," I lied, stepping back abruptly. The panic swelling in my chest tasted like copper and bile. "Camille, we need to reschedule this tasting. Something urgent has come up."
"Urgent? My mother is meeting us for lunch in twenty minutes!"
"Tell her my grandfather had a medical emergency. She’ll understand." I didn't wait for her reply. I spun on my heel, leaving her standing by the fountain, shouting my name.
I didn't care about the wedding. I didn't care about Salvatore’s wrath if he found out I abandoned his prized political bride in the middle of Grant Park. My world had narrowed down to three small faces and a pair of haunted green eyes.
I plunged into the crowd, bypassing tourists and street performers, my eyes scanning every path leading toward Michigan Avenue. My phone buzzed aggressively in my pocket—first Camille, then my head of security, Dominic. I ignored them all.
If I let her walk away again, I might lose all three of them forever.
Rounding the corner near Buckingham Fountain, I spotted a flash of a faded denim jacket darting toward the CTA station stairs. Maya was moving fast, her slender frame straining against the weight of the massive stroller packed with three toddlers.
"Maya!" I roared, my voice cutting through the urban noise.
May you like
She froze. Her shoulders hitched, and for a terrifying second, she looked like a cornered animal weighing her options. Then, she bolted down the subway steps, her sneakers clattering against the concrete.
I broke into a dead sprint, vaulting over a low hedge, ignoring the gasps of pedestrians. I wasn't just chasing a ghost anymore. I was chasing my own flesh and blood.
