Chapter 3 - I Rejected His Son Because I Loved His Father—Then a Secret Heir Came Back to Kill Them Both
His name was Adrian DeLuca.
Thirty-four years old.
Isabelle's first child.
Vincent's son.
A child Vincent had never known existed.
Nora told us everything.
Isabelle had given birth at seventeen.
Her family forced her to surrender the baby.
Years later, when she married Vincent, she never told him.
Anthony DeLuca found Adrian.
Raised him.
Not as Isabelle's son.
As a weapon.
Vincent sat behind his desk.
He looked as though someone had struck him.
“Why did you know?”
“Isabelle told me before she died.”
Nora cried.
“She begged me not to tell you until she could get Adrian away from Anthony.”
“She died three days later.”
“And you kept this from me for fifteen years?”
“I thought Adrian died too.”
“Thought?”
“Anthony told me.”
Vincent laughed without humor.
“Apparently everyone in my life has spent decades protecting me with lies.”
I felt that sentence.
So did he.
Evan stood near the window.
“I have a brother.”
“Half brother,” Nora whispered.
“That isn't the important distinction right now.”
No.
It wasn't.
Daniel had discovered Adrian's identity.
And Adrian had discovered Daniel knew.
My father had disappeared because Adrian tried to kill him.
Isabelle had died because she attempted to expose Anthony and save her firstborn son from becoming a DeLuca weapon.
Adrian had been eighteen.
Now he was back.
And the photograph of my father proved Daniel might still be alive.
Vincent called every contact he had.
By midnight, we had a location.
An abandoned Marlowe shipping facility on the Calumet River.
I wanted to go.
Vincent refused.
“No.”
I stared.
“You don't get to tell me no.”
“I do when someone wants to kill you.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“My father is there.”
“We don't know that.”
“Then I find out.”
Evan interrupted.
“She goes.”
Vincent looked at him.
Evan shrugged.
“You've known her three years. How is this still surprising?”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
We went.
The warehouse was empty.
Except for one chair.
One television.
And one man.
My father.
Alive.
I stopped breathing.
“Dad?”
He looked up.
Older.
Thin.
Scar across his throat.
But alive.
“Claire.”
My knees collapsed.
I ran.
He caught me.
For fourteen years, I had imagined this moment.
Sometimes I slapped him.
Sometimes I screamed.
Sometimes I walked away.
Instead I became eight years old again and buried my face against my father's chest.
“You left us.”
“I know.”
“You left us.”
“I know.”
“Mom waited.”
His body shook.
“I know.”
I hit his chest.
“You left us!”
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
I hated the answer.
Because it sounded exactly like something Vincent would say.
Men protecting women by making choices for them.
“Where have you been?”
“Hiding.”
“Fourteen years?”
“Adrian found me three years ago.”
“Three years?”
“He kept me alive because he wanted information.”
“What information?”
Daniel looked toward Vincent.
“The location of Isabelle's evidence.”
Vincent approached.
“Daniel.”
My father stared at him.
“You got old.”
“So did you.”
“I had better reasons.”
Then my father saw Evan.
His expression changed.
“Isabelle's boy.”
Evan nodded.
“One of them, apparently.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“So you know.”
“Yes.”
“Where is Adrian?” Vincent asked.
My father looked toward the rafters.
“Listening.”
Lights turned on.
A man appeared above us.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Vincent's eyes.
Isabelle's mouth.
Adrian.
Vincent stared at his firstborn son.
Adrian smiled.
“Hello, Father.”
The word cut through the warehouse.
Vincent didn't move.
“Come down.”
“You think this is a reunion?”
“No.”
“What do you think it is?”
“A conversation.”
Adrian laughed.
“Evan gets thirty years.”
“Money.”
“Your name.”
“Your house.”
“Your protection.”
“I got Anthony.”
Vincent's voice became quiet.
“I didn't know.”
“You all say that.”
“I didn't.”
“My mother knew.”
“Yes.”
“Your sister knew.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone knew except the great Vincent Marlowe.”
Vincent looked broken.
“I would have come for you.”
Adrian's face twisted.
“That's supposed to comfort me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Adrian raised a gun.
Evan stepped forward.
“Put it down.”
Adrian looked at him.
“My little brother.”
“Apparently.”
“You took everything.”
“I didn't know you existed.”
“That seems to be the family motto.”
Evan flinched.
Adrian smiled.
Then looked at me.
“And Claire.”
Vincent moved instantly.
“Leave her out of this.”
There it was.
Adrian saw it.
Everyone did.
His smile widened.
“So Nora was right.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“What?”
Adrian looked toward me.
“He loves you.”
My heart stopped.
Vincent said nothing.
Adrian laughed.
“Father and son.”
“Same woman.”
“How poetic.”
Evan's jaw tightened.
“Leave her alone.”
“Still defending the woman who rejected you?”
“Yes.”
That surprised Adrian.
It surprised me too.
Evan stepped closer.
“She didn't choose me.”
“That hurt.”
“But it doesn't make her my enemy.”
Something changed in Vincent's face.
Pride.
Adrian noticed.
And hated it.
He raised the gun toward Evan.
Vincent stepped in front of his son.
“Don't.”
Adrian stared.
“You'd die for him.”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
Vincent's voice broke.
“I would have died for you too.”
Adrian's hand shook.
For one second, I thought he might lower the weapon.
Then gunfire erupted outside.
Anthony DeLuca's men.
Adrian turned.
Confusion crossed his face.
He hadn't ordered them.
Daniel shouted:
“Anthony doesn't want anyone leaving!”
Everything exploded.
Bullets shattered windows.
Vincent dragged Evan down.
I pulled Dad behind machinery.
Adrian fired toward the doors.
The son raised by Anthony finally understood.
He had never been heir.
Never family.
Never loved.
Just another weapon.
Anthony entered with armed men.
“You disappoint me, boy.”
Adrian stared.
“You followed me.”
“I always follow investments.”
Vincent's face went cold.
Anthony smiled.
“Brother-in-law.”
“You killed Isabelle.”
“No.”
Anthony looked toward Adrian.
“He did.”
Silence.
Adrian's face emptied.
“What?”
Anthony laughed.
“She was going to take you away from me.”
“You were eighteen.”
“Angry.”
“Easy to manipulate.”
“I told you she chose Vincent's family over you.”
“You planted the device on her boat.”
Adrian shook his head.
“No.”
“You told me it was Vincent's boat.”
“It was.”
Anthony smiled.
“You simply didn't know your mother would be aboard.”
Adrian staggered.
Vincent stared at his son.
No hatred.
Only horror.
Anthony raised his weapon toward Adrian.
Vincent fired first.
Chaos erupted again.
By the time police and federal agents entered, Anthony DeLuca was dead.
Two of his men were wounded.
Adrian lay on the floor.
Shot.
Alive.
Vincent knelt beside him.
Adrian looked up.
“Why?”
Vincent pressed his hands against the wound.
“Why what?”
“Why save me?”
Vincent's voice cracked.
“Because you're my son.”
Adrian began crying.
Across the warehouse, Evan watched.
So did I.
Three hours later, outside the hospital, Vincent stood alone.
I approached.
He didn't turn.
“Claire.”
“You knew it was me.”
“I always know your footsteps.”
I stood beside him.
“Adrian will live.”
“Yes.”
“Evan is with him.”
“Yes.”
“My father is with Mom.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then Vincent said:
“You should stay away from me.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“This family has done enough to you.”
“That's my decision.”
“No.”
I laughed bitterly.
“There it is again.”
He closed his eyes.
“Claire.”
“You all keep loving people by removing their choices.”
“I am trying to protect you.”
“I know.”
“That doesn't make it right.”
Vincent looked at me.
I stepped closer.
“Do you love me?”
His expression changed.
“Don't ask that tonight.”
“I've spent three years not asking.”
“Claire.”
“Do you?”
He looked away.
I touched his face.
“Vincent.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Yes.”
The word was almost a whisper.
“Yes.”
My heart broke open.
He continued.
“I loved you before Evan asked you out.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I never acted on it.”
“You encouraged me to date him.”
“Because he loved you.”
“And because I thought wanting you made me selfish.”
I stared.
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Then we tell him.”
Vincent stepped back.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I won't do that to him.”
“You already did.”
His face tightened.
“The truth exists whether you speak it or not.”
I took his hand.
“For once, Vincent, stop deciding what everyone else is allowed to survive.”
He stared at our joined hands.
Then nodded.
“All right.”
May you like
For the first time since I had known him, Vincent Marlowe allowed someone else to decide what happened next.
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