Chapter 10
The sun climbed higher into the crisp autumn sky, flooding the grand conservatory of the Penrose estate with golden warmth.
Merrilee sat at the small white wrought-iron breakfast table, happily swinging her legs while eating silver-dollar pancakes drenched in maple syrup and towering swirls of whipped cream. Her face was smeared with sugar, her laughter ringing out across the glass room like silver bells as Mrs. Gable poured fresh orange juice into a small crystal glass.
Anselm sat across from her, a cup of black coffee in his hand, a tablet displaying harbor shipping manifests resting beside his plate. He watched his daughter with a calm, watchful serenity, his signet ring gleaming under the morning light.
Everything appeared peaceful. The lawn had been raked clean of tire tracks; the shattered glass in the dining room had been boarded up and scheduled for immediate restoration; the estate guards stood at relaxed attention along the perimeter fence.
Then, the private phone on the table vibrated once.
It was not the syndicate line, nor was it the encrypted channel used by Cassian. It was an untraceable, secure satellite signal originating from an offshore IP address.
Anselm picked it up and tapped the screen.
A single video file loaded, playing without audio.
The footage showed an aerial view of a private luxury compound in the hills outside Bogota, Colombia. Armed men in military uniforms patrolled the perimeter, surrounding a helipad where a private black executive jet was refueling.
A text message appeared beneath the video feed:
"You buried the Chicago dogs, Anselm. But Drusilla wasn't dealing with Moretti alone. The money for the warehouse fire came from the south. The cartel knows the girl's true origin. They know who her biological father was before you pulled her from that burning building in Queens. When you're ready to trade the harbor for the truth about her mother, we will be waiting."
Anselm stared at the screen.
His breathing didn't change, but his fingers tightened around the glass chassis of the phone until the reinforced screen spider-webbed with hairline fractures.
Her mother.
For three years, Anselm had believed Merrilee’s parents were collateral damage—innocent civilians who died in a mob-related arson fire in Queens. But the message laid bare a terrifying, hidden reality: Merrilee had not been an accident. Her rescue had not been a coincidence. Someone had orchestrated the tragedy that brought her to his doorstep.
"Daddy?" Merrilee’s voice cut through the cold calculation settling into his chest.
Anselm looked up.
The little girl was holding up a fresh strawberry, her hazel eyes bright, innocent, and full of absolute trust. The gold serpent brooch gleamed on her chest, reflecting the morning sun like a beacon of royal authority.
"Look, Daddy," she giggled, waving the fruit. "It looks like a little heart."
Anselm locked the phone, slipping the cracked device into his breast pocket. He smiled warmly, leaning across the table and taking the strawberry from her small fingers.
"It does look like a heart, sweetheart," Anselm said gently, his voice steady as granite. "Eat your breakfast."
He looked past her, through the panoramic glass walls of the conservatory toward the southern horizon, where the gray Atlantic met the endless sky.
The war with his family was over. But a much larger, darker storm was gathering on the horizon—an army moving from the shadows, carrying secrets about the child who called him father.
May you like
Anselm rested his hand over the signet ring on his finger, his dark eyes hardening into pure, unyielding resolve. Whoever was coming for Merrilee would learn the same lesson Drusilla and Moretti had learned:
To touch the Penrose bloodline was to sign your own death warrant.
