Chapter 2 - Shadows of Blackwood
The Serrano Estate sat high on the pine-covered bluffs of upstate New York, overlooking the dark, winding stretch of the Hudson River. Surrounded by stone walls, iron gates, and armed patrols, Blackwood Manor was an impenetrable fortress built for a man whose life was a constant war.
When the convoy pulled into the long stone driveway at 3:00 AM, the estate was silent save for the wind howling through the pine trees.
Dante carried Genevieve inside, stepping across the heated marble foyer. His housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, stood waiting with clean towels, warm tea, and a soft velvet robe.
"Merciful heavens," Mrs. Gable murmured, her eyes softening as she looked at the pale girl in Dante’s arms. "She looks like a ghost, sir."
"Prepare the guest suite on the east wing," Dante commanded gently. "The one with the fireplace. Bring soup, soft bread, and clean water. No doctors yet. She isn't ready for strangers."
Dante carried her up the grand staircase. When he placed her down on the plush, king-sized bed in the suite, Genevieve immediately scrambled backward, her heels digging into the silk duvet, her back slamming against the carved mahogany headboard. Her eyes scanned the massive room—the high ceilings, the crystal chandelier, the heavy velvet drapes—with intense, suffocating terror.
She didn't know how to exist in a room with walls. For ten years, her sky had been concrete bridges, rusted iron fire escapes, and open, merciless rain.
"Hey," Dante said softly, kneeling beside the bed so his eyes were level with hers. He did not step closer. He gave her space. "It’s just a room. The doors don't lock from the outside. You can leave whenever you want."
Genevieve watched him, her chest heaving. Slowly, her eyes drifted down to the floor. She slid off the mattress, sinking down onto the thick oriental rug near the hearth where a warm fire crackled. She pulled the velvet blanket off the bed and wrapped it tightly around herself, curling into a tiny ball on the floor.
Dante felt a sharp pang in his chest. A girl born to royalty, reduced to sleeping on the floor because a bed felt too much like a trap.
He didn't force her back onto the mattress. Instead, Dante pulled a large leather armchair over to the fireplace, sitting down across from her. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, and leaned back, keeping vigil in the soft glow of the fire.
"I won't leave you alone in the dark," he murmured quietly.
For two hours, the only sound in the room was the crackle of burning oak logs. Genevieve watched him through the fringe of her newly cut dark hair. She saw the lines of pain around his jaw—the physical toll of his gunshot wound—and the quiet, immovable strength in his posture.
Around 5:00 AM, Mateo knocked softly on the doorframe, stepping into the dim light. He carried a leather dossier under his arm.
"Dante," Mateo whispered, casting a cautious glance at the girl on the rug. "I ran the Vance records."
Dante motioned for him to step out into the hallway. Dante stood up slowly, wincing as his side throbbed, and followed Mateo into the corridor, leaving the door wide open so Genevieve could see him.
"What did you find?" Dante asked.
"Ten years ago, the yacht The Sea Empress exploded off Montauk," Mateo reported, opening the file. "The official Coast Guard report claimed a propane leak in the galley. Arthur Vance and his wife, Eleanor, died instantly. Genevieve’s body was never recovered, but given the water temperature and the blast radius, she was declared dead."
"Who signed off on the investigation?" Dante demanded.
"Chief Inspector Thomas Miller—a man who retired three months later to a multi-million-dollar villa in Miami," Mateo said grimly. "And guess who funded his retirement account? Richard Vance. Arthur’s younger brother."
Dante’s eyes hardened into flint. "Richard didn't just inherit the company. He executed his brother’s family."
"It gets worse," Mateo added. "Richard Vance has spent the last decade liquidating the company's manufacturing divisions and funneling billions into off-shore accounts in Grand Cayman. In six days, on the ten-year anniversary of the explosion, the legal court will formally declare Genevieve deceased. The entire twenty-billion-dollar trust will merge into Richard’s personal accounts. Once that happens, the money is gone forever."
Dante looked back through the open doorway. Genevieve was sitting up on the rug, her small hands clutching the velvet blanket, her emerald eyes fixed on him.
"She didn't survive ten years on the streets by accident, Mateo," Dante said quietly. "She was hiding. She knew who blew up that boat."
Dante turned and walked back into the room. He walked over to the fire, taking a small bowl of warm chicken broth from the tray Mrs. Gable had left. He knelt on the rug three feet away from Genevieve, setting the bowl down between them.
"Your uncle thinks he won, Genevieve," Dante said, his voice ringing with a cold, absolute promise. "He thinks the water took you. He thinks the city swallowed you."
Genevieve reached out a trembling hand. Her fingers touched the warm ceramic bowl, but she didn't drink. She looked up at Dante, her pale lips parting for the first time.
A raspy, broken sound came from her throat—a voice that hadn't been used in a decade.
"He... he came... for me," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves scraping over stone.
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Dante’s heart slammed against his ribs. "Richard?"
Genevieve nodded slowly, tears welling in her green eyes, spilling over her pale cheeks. "He... fired... the gun."
