Chapter 3 - THE BETRAYAL WITHINThe medical bay inside the vault was fully equipped, looking more like a high-tech hospital than a criminal's hideout. Victor gently took Lily from my arms and laid her down on the examination table, immediately hooking her up to an intravenous drip of broad-spectrum antibiotics and saline.
"Her fever is breaking, but her lungs are severely congested," Victor muttered, adjusting the oxygen flow. He looked up at me, his expression grim. "Listen to me, Hannah. We are not safe down here for long. That door can withstand a mortar shell, but the ventilation shaft leads directly to the estate's exterior garden."
"Then we'll be smoked out," I whispered, sinking into a metal chair as the shock finally caught up with me. "Victor, please... just tell me the truth. Who is my father? And why did my mother run?"
Victor paced the sterile room, his boots clicking rhythmically against the tile.
"Your father was Dante Moretti—my older brother, and the previous Don of the syndicate," Victor said, stopping in front of a wall monitor that displayed security feeds from around the estate. "He was ruthless, but he loved Elena. When rival factions tried to use Elena as leverage to usurp his throne, Dante faked her death and smuggled her out of the country."
He pointed to the screen. Camera four showed the study we had just fled. A dozen men in unmarked tactical gear were methodically dismantling the room, led by a tall figure in a trench coat.
"That's Marcus Vance," Victor whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "My chief of security. The man I trusted with my life."
"He sold us out?" I gasped.
"He sold the throne out," Victor corrected. "Marcus didn't just want money. He wants control of the syndicate. And under our bloodline laws, whoever controls the direct heir controls the entire criminal empire. With Lily alive, Marcus's claim to the council is illegitimate. He has to eliminate her—or force her to be his puppet."
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Suddenly, the monitor flickered. The audio feed from camera four crackled to life, broadcasting Marcus Vance’s cold, smooth voice through the vault's speakers.
"I know you're down there, Victor," Marcus mocked, his voice echoing off the steel walls. "You can hide in your grandfather's tomb all you want. But the ventilation system is hooked up to a localized neurotoxin. You have two minutes to open the door and hand over the brat, or you die gasping for air alongside a frightened cleaning lady and her bastard child."
