Chapter 2 - The St. Anselm Conspiracy
The Voss estate in Lake Forest was less of a home and more of a fortress. High concrete walls topped with security cameras surrounded the property, guarded by men with concealed sidearms and quiet footsteps.
Pamela sat on a velvet sofa in the sprawling living room, a mug of warm tea untouched on the mahogany table before her. The triplets—whom Roman identified as Leo, Julian, and baby Sofia—refused to leave her side. Leo was asleep with his head heavy against her lap; Julian clutched her thumb like a lifeline, while Sofia snuggled into the crook of her arm, her breathing soft and rhythmic.
Roman stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of scotch untouched in his hand.
"My wife was Elena," Roman said, breaking the heavy silence. "Her pregnancy was high-risk. St. Anselm was supposed to be the best private facility in the Midwest. The night she went into labor, I was detained by federal agents on false tax fraud charges. By the time my lawyers cleared me and I reached the hospital... Elena was dead, and three babies were in the NICU."
"And you never doubted it?" Pamela asked softly, her fingers gently stroking Sofia’s soft curls.
"Why would I?" Roman turned, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "The birth certificates had Elena’s name. The medical reports showed severe preeclampsia. I spent fourteen months grieving my wife while raising three children alone. But tonight..."
He stepped toward her, his gaze falling on the way the babies clung to Pamela’s body.
"Children don't know blood lines," Roman whispered. "They know smell. They know the sound of a heart they listened to for nine months in the dark. When you walked past our table tonight, their heart rates dropped instantly. They knew you before they saw you."
A chill ran down Pamela’s spine. "You think... you think my babies didn't die?"
"I think," Roman replied, pulling a silver pen from his pocket, "that a hospital run by board members with tens of millions in debt had every reason to sell infants to wealthy men who could buy silence."
Pamela felt the room spin. "No... no, that's impossible! I saw the death certificates!"
"Printed certificates can be bought for five hundred dollars in this city," Roman sneered. "Donovan!"
The scarred security chief appeared instantly in the doorway. "Boss?"
"Get Dr. Arthur Pendelton on the phone. The Chief of Obstetrics at St. Anselm."
"Pendelton retired six months ago, Mr. Voss," Donovan reported, his voice dark. "He bought a private yacht and moved to the Cayman Islands."
Roman’s eyes flickered with lethal intent. "Then bring him back."
"Wait!" Pamela gasped, rising slightly without waking the sleeping children. "If Dr. Pendelton took my babies... then who is Elena’s child? What happened to her baby?"
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Roman walked over and knelt right in front of Pamela. For a man who could crumble financial empires with a phone call, his hand trembled slightly as he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a tear from Pamela’s cheek.
"That," Roman said softly, "is what we are going to find out before sunrise."
