Chapter 3 - The Truth in the ICU
The Intensive Care Unit at St. Jude's was locked down like a military base. My men occupied every corner, disguised as orderlies and security staff. When I pushed open the door to Room 412, the faint beep of the heart monitor filled the sterile air.
Hannah looked paper-thin against the white sheets, her eyes wide with terror. But when she saw me walk in, her shoulders visibly sagged in relief.
"Andrew..." her voice was a hoarse scrape. "The kids... are they safe?"
"They are in my home, protected by twenty armed men and the best legal team money can buy," I said, sitting in the armchair beside her bed. I reached into my coat and laid the photograph of her and Marcus on the bedsheet. "Now tell me why Marcus Vance is still breathing."
Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. She didn't look away from the photo. "He didn't die eight years ago, Andrew. He bribed the coast guard, faked his death, and spent the last decade building a shadow syndicate in Chicago. Three years ago, he found me. He... he forced himself into my life. He's the father of the twins."
The room grew dead silent. The blood in my veins turned to ice.
"He held me captive in an apartment complex on the South Side," she sobbed. "When he found out I was pregnant with twins, he realized he could use them to destroy you. He poisoned my food for months, making me weak, making me desperate. He knew I had no family left. He knew if I collapsed, Sophie would have to go out into the streets."
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"He sent a six-year-old girl out into the snow, hoping she'd run into my men?" I asked, incredulous.
"No," Hannah whispered, looking directly into my eyes. "He placed us in that specific neighborhood because he knew your routine. He told Sophie that if she ever needed help, she should find the tallest man in the black coat at the corner market. He wanted you to take us in. He wanted you to love those children, Andrew... so he could take them away and watch you burn."
