Chapter 2 - The Fortress of Screams and the DNA Truth
The ride in the back of the armored black Escalade was silent. Pamela stared out the window as the neon lights of River North dissolved into the sprawling, heavily guarded estates of Lake Forest. They pulled up to a monolithic wrought-iron gate that opened like the jaws of a beast, revealing a colossal stone mansion surrounded by towering pines.
When the heavy oak doors of the mansion opened, the silence died.
The triplets were screaming. It wasn't a normal baby cry; it was a desperate, breathless shrieking that echoed off the high marble ceilings.
Roman Voss was pacing the grand foyer, his tie loosened, his pristine white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was disheveled, and the terrifying composure he held at the restaurant was fracturing. Three nannies were frantically trying to soothe the infants in their high-tech rocking chairs, but the moment a nanny touched them, the babies shrieked louder, kicking their tiny legs.
"Get out," Roman growled at the nannies the moment Pamela stepped inside.
The women didn't hesitate; they fled upstairs like ghosts scattering before dawn.
Roman turned his storm-cloud eyes onto Pamela. "They haven't stopped since we left the restaurant. The doctor gave them a mild sedative. It didn't work. Their heart rates are too high."
Pamela didn't think. She didn't care about the armed guards, the wealth, or the terrifying reputation of the man before her. She saw three babies in agony.
She walked past Roman, her worn sneakers clicking on the marble. She dropped to her knees in front of the triple stroller. The moment her shadow fell over them, the shrieking stopped.
The silence was instantaneous, heavy, and profound.
The first boy, the one who had thrown the bear, sniffled, a giant tear rolling down his chubby cheek. He reached out two trembling hands and wrapped his tiny fingers around Pamela’s thumb. The little girl stopped sobbing, her chest heaving as she stared at Pamela’s face, a soft, gurgling sound escaping her lips.
"Hi again," Pamela whispered, her own tears blurring her vision. She reached out, gently wiping the damp curls from the little girl's forehead. "You're okay. Mommy's—" She choked on the word, looking up at Roman in panic.
Roman was staring at them, his chest rising and falling sharply. He stepped forward, holding a white paper envelope.
"Three hours ago, while you were wiping down tables, I had my private physician extract hair follicles from the children and match them against the DNA sample my men retrieved from your apartment—from your hairbrush," Roman said, his voice dangerously low.
He ripped open the envelope, pulling out a document.
"The woman who raised these children for the first year of their lives—my late wife, Isabella—claimed she used an anonymous donor and a surrogate in Europe due to her medical complications. She passed away in a hit-and-run six months ago." Roman stepped closer, dropping the paper into Pamela’s lap. "But this test says there is a 99.9% biological match. They aren't Isabella’s. They are yours."
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Pamela clutched the paper, her world tilting. "But how? I was told they died! I heard the flatline!"
"They didn't die," Roman said, his jaw tightening until the bone looked ready to snap. "They were stolen from your womb. And my family paid for it."
