Chapter 3 - THE DAUGHTER VINCENT NEVER KNEW HE HAD
Vincent reached the kitchen before Daniel finished ordering the mansion into lockdown.
Sophie was sitting at the long wooden island with Mrs. Keller, the sixty-three-year-old cook who had worked for Vincent since he was twenty-eight.
A strawberry candy was tucked into Sophie’s cheek.
She looked up when Vincent entered.
“You said I could keep it.”
For one disorienting second, he did not understand.
Then she tugged her tiny lapel.
The suit.
“Yes,” Vincent said.
“You look mad.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
She studied him.
Children had an unnerving way of ignoring the masks adults spent decades perfecting.
“You look scared.”
Mrs. Keller froze.
Daniel entered behind Vincent and began checking the kitchen windows.
Vincent lowered himself to one knee in front of Sophie.
He had stared into the faces of men begging for their lives without blinking.
He had stood over graves.
He had buried friends.
Nothing had ever frightened him quite like looking into Sophie’s gray eyes after hearing that someone wanted her dead.
“I need you to listen to me,” he said.
Sophie straightened.
“This is important.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going upstairs with your mother.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Is it because of the picture?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Yes.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
Something inside him broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Vincent reached forward and adjusted the ridiculous tie around her neck.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But Mom was scared.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Are you going to fire her?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
Vincent’s throat tightened.
“I promise.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
Then Sophie surprised him.
She wrapped both arms around his neck.
Vincent froze.
Mrs. Keller looked away.
Daniel suddenly found the window extremely interesting.
Sophie whispered, “Your suit is scratchier than mine.”
A laugh almost escaped Vincent.
Almost.
He placed one hand carefully against her back.
For seven years, men had apparently been hiding his daughter from him.
For three years, she had been within twenty feet of him almost every day.
And he had never once held her.
When Sophie pulled back, Vincent stood.
“Daniel takes you upstairs. You stay there until I come get you.”
“Can Mom come?”
“Yes.”
“Can I bring cookies?”
Vincent looked at Mrs. Keller.
“Every cookie in the house.”
Sophie grinned.
An hour later, Vincent had transformed the Lakeview mansion into a fortress.
No employee left.
No car moved.
Every phone belonging to his security staff was collected and checked.
Daniel isolated the surveillance system.
The murdered guard, Peter Walsh, had worked for Vincent for six years.
He had a wife in Evanston and twin daughters in college.
There were no signs Peter had betrayed them.
Which meant whoever killed him had either entered unnoticed or was already inside.
That possibility turned Vincent’s suspicion toward every face in the house.
Including people he had trusted for decades.
Especially them.
By midnight, the DNA technician arrived.
Vincent did not use public laboratories for sensitive matters.
Dr. Samuel Levin had handled private medical testing for the Rowan organization for twelve years and understood that discretion was not optional.
Sophie complained about the cheek swab.
“It tastes weird.”
“It doesn’t have a taste,” Claire told her.
“Yes, it does.”
“What does it taste like?”
“Hospital.”
Vincent, standing nearby, nearly smiled.
Claire noticed.
Neither commented.
Dr. Levin took Vincent’s sample next.
Then he left through the secured garage with Daniel’s men.
Results would be available within hours.
Technology had become remarkably efficient when money removed the waiting line.
Claire sat with Sophie upstairs until the girl fell asleep.
Vincent remained outside the bedroom.
He told himself he was checking security.
He did not admit he was listening to Sophie breathe.
Claire stepped into the hallway and quietly closed the door.
“You can go inside.”
Vincent looked at her.
“It’s her bedroom.”
“It’s your house.”
“That doesn’t make everything in it mine.”
Claire stared at him.
The feared Vincent Rowan was apparently capable of understanding boundaries after all.
She leaned against the wall.
“She likes you.”
“That may prove she has poor judgment.”
Claire almost laughed.
The moment vanished quickly.
“You should hate me.”
“I haven’t decided what I feel about you.”
“That’s fair.”
Vincent looked through the partly open door.
“When did you realize she looked like me?”
“Before she was one.”
“And you still came here.”
“I came because Natalie told me to.”
“You could have taken her anywhere.”
“No.”
Claire lowered her voice.
“I couldn’t protect her forever.”
“Why me?”
“Because whatever else you are, Natalie believed you would burn Chicago to the ground before you let anyone hurt your child.”
Vincent’s eyes moved toward her.
“That sounds like Natalie.”
“It was.”
His phone rang.
Daniel.
Vincent answered.
“Tell me.”
“We found the access point.”
“Where?”
“East utility corridor.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“There’s no exterior access there.”
“Exactly.”
Someone had opened the electronic service door from inside six minutes before Peter Walsh was killed.
The system log showed the authorization belonged to a senior security credential.
There were only five such credentials.
Vincent.
Daniel.
Marcus.
Vincent’s lawyer, Everett Cole.
And Vincent’s operations chief, Anthony DeLuca.
Daniel had been visible on interior cameras.
Vincent had been in the study.
Cole was in New York.
DeLuca claimed he was home.
And Marcus?
Daniel paused.
“No location yet.”
Vincent ended the call.
Claire had heard enough.
“You believe me now.”
“I believe someone used Marcus’s access.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
“You still can’t accept it.”
Vincent turned toward her.
“Marcus put food on my table after my father died. He stood beside me at my mother’s funeral. When five men tried to kill me in Cicero, Marcus took a bullet through the shoulder.”
Claire’s expression softened.
“That’s why Natalie was afraid you wouldn’t see him.”
Vincent’s eyes hardened again.
“Careful.”
“I’m not insulting you.”
“It sounded dangerously close.”
“I’m telling you loving someone doesn’t make them innocent.”
That struck deeper than Claire intended.
Vincent walked away.
At three eighteen in the morning, Dr. Levin called.
Vincent was alone in his study.
He answered immediately.
“Results?”
“Yes.”
Vincent stared at Natalie’s photograph.
“Say it.”
“The probability of biological paternity is greater than ninety-nine point nine nine percent.”
Silence.
“Vincent?”
He could not answer.
His hand tightened around the phone.
Sophie was his daughter.
Not possibly.
Not probably.
His.
A seven-year-old daughter who liked strawberry candies and asked inconvenient questions.
A daughter someone had tried to erase before Vincent knew she existed.
Dr. Levin continued speaking, but Vincent heard little of it.
When the call ended, he remained in the dark for several minutes.
Then he went upstairs.
Claire was asleep in the chair beside Sophie’s bed.
Sophie was sprawled diagonally across the mattress, blanket half on the floor.
Vincent picked up the blanket.
He had no idea how to be a father.
His own had taught him to throw a punch before teaching him to drive.
Anthony Rowan believed sons learned strength through pain.
Vincent remembered being fourteen and having his father tell him that love made men careless.
Looking down at Sophie, Vincent understood for the first time that his father had been wrong.
Love did not make a man careless.
It gave him something worth being careful for.
Sophie stirred.
Her eyes opened.
“Mr. Rowan?”
Vincent sat beside the bed.
“Go back to sleep.”
She rubbed her eyes.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes again.
Then opened them.
“Did you find out why Mom was scared?”
Vincent looked toward Claire.
She was awake now.
Neither adult spoke.
Sophie sat up.
“Is it bad?”
Claire walked toward the bed.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Then why are both of you acting strange?”
Vincent looked at Claire.
Claire gave the smallest nod.
He faced Sophie.
“The photograph you found…”
“The one with the pretty lady?”
“Yes.”
“That was Natalie.”
“Mom’s sister.”
Vincent’s gaze flickered toward Claire.
So Sophie knew Natalie existed.
“Yes.”
“Mom says she died.”
Claire looked ashamed.
Vincent continued carefully.
“She was very important to me.”
“Oh.”
“And we found out something else tonight.”
Sophie waited.
Vincent had negotiated deals worth hundreds of millions without hesitation.
This was harder.
“There’s a very strong chance I’m your father.”
Sophie blinked.
“What?”
“Your biological father.”
Another blink.
Then she looked at Claire.
“Is he joking?”
“No,” Claire whispered.
Sophie stared at Vincent for so long his heart began pounding.
Finally, she asked, “So am I supposed to call you Dad?”
Vincent nearly stopped breathing.
“You’re not supposed to call me anything you don’t want to.”
Sophie considered this carefully.
“Can I think about it?”
Vincent nodded.
“As long as you need.”
She lay back down.
Thirty seconds later, she whispered into the darkness.
“Good night, Vincent.”
Claire covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Vincent stared at the ceiling.
“I suppose that’s progress.”
Sophie giggled.
Then Daniel burst into the room.
Gun drawn.
Vincent was on his feet instantly.
“What?”
Daniel held up a phone.
“You need to see this.”
On the screen was an incoming video call from an unknown number.
Daniel answered.
Static filled the screen.
Then a woman appeared.
Thin.
Pale.
Older.
A bruise darkened one side of her face.
But Vincent recognized her immediately.
Natalie Mercer looked directly into the camera.
Vincent forgot how to breathe.
“Natalie?”
Her lips trembled.
“Vincent…”
Claire gasped behind him.
Natalie looked terrified.
“If Sophie is with you, listen to me carefully.”
A sound came from somewhere behind her.
A door opening.
Natalie looked over her shoulder.
Then back into the camera.
Her final words came out in a desperate whisper.
May you like
“Do not trust Marcus.”
The screen went black.
