Chapter 4 - The Secret Beneath His Pillow
Beatrice hit the floor before she understood what had happened.
Damian's arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her behind a steel cabinet.
Another gunshot struck the wall.
His guards returned fire.
Glass shattered.
Someone screamed.
Then silence.
“Bea.”
Damian's hand touched her face.
“Look at me.”
She opened her eyes.
“Are you hit?”
“I don't know.”
His hands moved quickly over her shoulders and arms.
No blood.
“I'm okay.”
Damian exhaled.
For the first time, she heard genuine fear in his breathing.
Not fear for himself.
For her.
A guard called from the doorway.
“Shooter's gone.”
Damian stood.
“Find him.”
He helped Bea up.
Her knees shook.
“Still think coming was a good idea?”
She looked at the bullet hole inches from where her head had been.
“No.”
“Good.”
“But I saw something.”
Damian stopped.
“What?”
“Before the lights went out.”
She walked toward the monitor.
“The reflection.”
“What about it?”
“The shooter was wearing one of your security uniforms.”
Damian's expression hardened.
Another traitor.
Or Richard had infiltrated the estate deeper than anyone understood.
Bea looked around.
Then noticed something beneath the medical bed.
A yellow envelope.
She pulled it free.
Her name was written across the front.
BEATRICE HAYES.
Damian stared.
“Don't open it.”
“Why?”
“Because someone knew you'd come here.”
She looked at him.
“How?”
Neither had an answer.
Damian took the envelope and carefully opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A little girl standing beside a woman.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
“My mother.”
Damian looked at her.
The photograph had been taken nearly twenty years earlier.
Bea was seven.
Her mother stood beside her.
And behind them—
Vittorio Costello.
Damian's father.
Beatrice stared at the picture.
“No.”
“You knew my father?”
“I never met him.”
“That's you.”
“Yes.”
“Then how—”
“I don't know.”
A note was attached.
Damian read it.
His expression changed.
“What does it say?”
He hesitated.
“Damian.”
He handed it to her.
Beatrice read:
ASK HER WHAT HER MOTHER STOLE FROM VITTORIO COSTELLO.
Her hands began trembling.
“My mother wasn't a thief.”
Damian said nothing.
“She wasn't.”
“I didn't say she was.”
Beatrice turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Her mother's.
She recognized it instantly.
If anything happens to me, the truth belongs to the girl.
Bea's knees weakened.
Damian caught her.
“My mother died two years ago.”
“How?”
“Cancer.”
“Are you certain?”
She stared at him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“The kind I have to ask now.”
Beatrice pulled away.
“My mother was sick for eighteen months. I watched her die.”
Damian's expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
She looked at the photograph again.
Her mother had known Damian's father.
Somehow.
The story had begun long before Bea entered the Costello estate.
Perhaps before Clara disappeared.
Before the war.
Before Richard's betrayal.
Damian looked toward the doorway.
“We're leaving.”
“What about Clara?”
“That video was meant to keep me chasing shadows.”
“You think it wasn't live?”
“I think Richard wants me emotional.”
Bea studied him.
“It's working.”
Damian looked at her.
“Yes.”
The admission surprised her.
He folded the photograph and placed it carefully inside his jacket.
“From now on, you don't leave my sight.”
Beatrice almost protested.
Then remembered the bullet.
“Fine.”
They returned to the estate.
But the mansion no longer felt safe.
Every guard could be Richard's.
Every corridor could contain another trap.
That night Damian moved Bea into a guest suite across from his own room.
She stood at the doorway.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.”
“I've lived downstairs for six months.”
“You're not staff anymore.”
She looked at him.
“What am I?”
Damian hesitated.
“A witness.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It probably is.”
He turned to leave.
“Damian.”
He stopped.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Back there.”
“You saved my life first.”
“So we're even?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“No.”
Then he walked away.
Beatrice closed the door.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, she was alone.
She removed her shoes.
Sat on the bed.
And began crying.
Quietly.
Not because she was weak.
Because she finally had enough silence to understand how terrified she was.
A knock sounded.
She wiped her face.
“Who is it?”
“Damian.”
She opened the door.
He held the yellow folder she had carried into his bed.
“I found something.”
He entered and placed the papers on her desk.
One sheet had been stuck inside the folder's lining.
A list of names.
Clara Costello.
Richard Lawson.
Vittorio Costello.
Margaret Hayes.
Beatrice's mother.
And beneath those names was one final entry.
BEATRICE HAYES — contingency heir.
Beatrice stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
Damian looked at her.
“I don't know.”
But beneath the list was a bank account containing more than forty million dollars.
The beneficiary was Beatrice Hayes.
And the account had been created by Damian's father three weeks before his supposed death.
Beatrice slowly sat down.
Damian remained standing.
Neither noticed the tiny red light blinking inside the smoke detector above them.
Someone was watching.
May you like
And across Chicago, Richard Lawson smiled at the screen.
“Now,” he whispered, “she knows enough to become useful.”
