Chapter 4 - THE POISONED BLOODLINE
The black armored Maybach sliced through the midnight streets of North End.
Rain pelted the bulletproof glass.
Inside, the silence was suffocating.
Delphine sat pressed against the passenger door, her arms wrapped tightly around her belly.
The baby shifted restlessly, reacting to the adrenaline still coursing through her blood.
Sloan sat across from her on the rear leather bench.
His coat was off.
His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the left shoulder soaked in dark crimson where the bullet had furrowed his flesh.
He didn't touch the wound.
He didn't wince.
He just stared at Delphine.
His gaze was a physical weight, pressing against her skin, measuring every breath she took.
“Who prescribed your prenatal vitamins?” he asked abruptly.
The question caught Del off guard.
She blinked, turning her head toward him.
“What?”
“You’re seven months along,” Sloan said, his voice flat, controlled, and dangerous. “Your ankles are swollen. Your uniform is three sizes too small. Who is your obstetrician?”
“A clinic on Fourth Street,” she said coldly.
“A free clinic.”
“A safe clinic.”
Sloan’s jaw set like concrete.
“My child was being monitored in a charity basement while I owned three private surgical wings in Boston.”
“Your child was safe because you didn't know he existed!” Del fired back.
The pronoun slipped out before she could stop it.
He.
Sloan’s breath hitched.
A crack appeared in his stone mask.
For a fraction of a second, something raw and vulnerable flickered behind his gray eyes.
“A son,” he whispered.
He looked down at his own massive, scarred hands.
Hands that had broken bones, signed execution orders, and directed an underworld empire.
Hands that had never held anything smaller than a gun.
“He is mine,” Sloan said, looking back up. “Say it.”
Del looked out the rain-streaked window.
“Biologically, yes. In every way that matters? No.”
She turned to face him, letting all the bitterness of three years pour into her eyes.
“You live in a glass house surrounded by landmines, Sloan. Look at what happened tonight! Cora was poisoned at dinner. A hitman kicked down the door five minutes later. You expect me to raise a boy in that slaughterhouse?”
“Cora’s reaction was an accident,” Sloan said, but the muscle in his jaw twitched again.
“It wasn't an accident,” Del said flatly.
Sloan went still.
“Explain.”
Del leaned forward, the emergency room diagnostician taking over.
“I smelled the sauce on her plate before she dropped the glass. Walnut oil. High-concentration cold-pressed walnut oil.”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“The chef knows Cora has a fatal tree-nut allergy. The kitchen has been nut-free for five years.”
“Then someone brought it into that room,” Del said. “Someone poured it into her reduction after the plate left the kitchen.”
Sloan closed his eyes for two long seconds.
When he opened them, the man inside had retreated behind an abyss of cold fury.
The phone in his breast pocket buzzed.
He put it to his ear.
“Report.”
“Boss,” Bishop’s voice was tense over the speaker. “Dr. Castiglione pumped Cora’s stomach. The toxicology report confirmed walnut extracts and high doses of digitalis.”
Heart medication.
A lethal combination designed to paralyze her heart while her throat closed.
“And the burner phone?” Sloan asked.
A pause.
Bishop sounded reluctant to speak.
“The outgoing calls were routed through the landline in the guest wing at the Marblehead mansion. Elena’s private suite.”
Elena.
Elena Vance.
The daughter of the Chicago syndicate boss.
The woman Sloan’s mother had chosen to replace Delphine the moment she vanished.
Del felt the cold truth settle over her skin.
Elena had been dining with Cora earlier that week.
Elena had known about the allergy.
Sloan ended the call without another word.
He reached across the seat.
His hand closed gently, almost reverently, around Delphine’s fingers.
She tried to pull away, but he held her firm.
His thumb brushed across the gold ring indentation on her left hand.
The skin there was pale, the ghost of a wedding band she had thrown into the Boston Harbor three years ago.
“You saved my sister’s life tonight, Del,” Sloan said softly.
“I saved a nineteen-year-old girl,” Del replied, her throat tight. “Don't confuse my oath as a nurse with loyalty to you.”
The Maybach slowed, turning off the main highway and passing through massive wrought-iron gates.
Two armed guards in tactical gear saluted as the car swept up the winding private driveway.
The Marchetti fortress.
Seventy acres of high walls, razor wire, and security towers overlooking the black ocean.
The prison she had escaped three years ago.
The car stopped before the grand stone steps.
Sloan stepped out first.
He didn't wait for her to move.
He leaned into the car, slid one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, and lifted her into his chest.
“Put me down!” Del protested, clutching at his lapels to keep her balance. “Sloan! I can walk!”
“You’ve been on your feet for fourteen hours,” he said, carrying her up the steps into the warmth of the foyer. “You are done walking for tonight.”
The massive mahogany front doors swung open.
Standing on the black marble floor of the grand hall was a woman in an emerald silk robe.
Blonde hair, flawless skin, and eyes like polished glass.
Elena Vance.
Beside her stood two armed guards wearing Chicago insignias.
Elena looked at Delphine cradled in Sloan’s arms.
Then she looked at Del’s swollen belly.
Elena’s face drained of every drop of color.
“Sloan?” Elena choked out. “Who is that woman?”
Sloan didn't break his stride.
He carried Del straight toward the grand staircase.
May you like
“Tell your father to pack your bags, Elena,” Sloan said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “My wife has returned home.”
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