Chapter 22
Chapter 22: The Ghost in the Nursery
Harper didn't look at the shattered window; she looked at the reflection in the polished wood of the empty crib.
Preston Whitcomb stepped through the ruined frame, the freezing winter wind whipping his soaked gray hair around his face. He looked gaunt, his expensive tailored coat torn and smeared with dirt from his escape, but his eyes possessed the terrifying, hyper-focused clarity of a madman who believed he was on a divine mission. And on his face, stretching from ear to ear in the dim emergency light, was that same, pristine, benevolent smile.
"Hello, Harper," Preston whispered, his voice a soft, fatherly purr that made the skin on her arms crawl. "You didn't think a few federal locks could keep a father from his daughter, did you?"
Harper stood her ground, her back pressing against the wall, her hands shielding her belly. "You don't have a daughter, Preston. You have an executioner. And she’s already passed the sentence."
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Preston chuckled, a dry, rattling sound as he raised a small, silver-plated revolver. "You always did have your mother’s dramatic flair. But you forget who built you, girl. Every scar on your back is a signature of my ownership. And now, you’re carrying my legacy. A DeLuca bloodline mixed with Whitcomb gold. I’m taking what’s mine."
He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab her hair, but before his fingers could brush her skin, a massive, ninety-pound gray shadow launched itself from the darkness beside the wardrobe. Bruno, his jaws locked in a silent, predatory strike, clamped onto Preston’s forearm. Preston screamed—a sharp, pathetic sound—as the revolver discharged into the ceiling, the bullet tearing through the plaster.
