Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Pedigree
The north tower study smelled of aged leather, dried tobacco, and long-settled dust.
Roman locked the heavy oak door from the inside, turning a massive iron key that clicked like a cell door closing.
He did not switch on the overhead crystal lights, choosing instead to illuminate the desk with a single green banker's lamp.
Outside, the storm had intensified, throwing sheets of cold rain against the tall Gothic windows.
Clara stood near the entrance, her heart racing as she observed the enormous oil painting dominating the wall.
The portrait depicted Arthur DeLuca sitting in a high-backed leather chair, looking stern, unbending, and regal.
Beside him stood a pale, serious boy of about seven years old, dressed in a traditional boarding school blazer.
Clara stepped closer to the canvas, squinting in the dim amber glow of the desk lamp.
The boy in the painting had jet-black hair, just like the man standing in the room with her now.
However, the boy’s eyes were light hazel, not slate-gray.
And the skin above his left eyebrow was completely smooth, devoid of any crescent scar.
Roman stood beside Clara, staring at the portrait of the child he had believed was himself for eighteen years.
He touched his own eyebrow again, his fingers tracing the scar with painful slowness.
“That boy is not me,” Roman whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of an avalanche.
“That was the real Roman DeLuca,” Clara said softly, her voice barely louder than the patter of rain.
“What happened to him?” Roman asked, turning to face her in the gloom.
“The fire at Blackwood Manor was not an accident,” Clara replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
“My mother wrote that an incendiary device was planted in the nursery wing on the night of October twenty-fourth.”
“Someone locked the iron fire gates from the outside, trapping the boys inside their bedrooms.”
Roman gripped the edge of the mahogany desk, his knuckles turning white under the strain.
“Arthur DeLuca was away in New York on business,” Clara continued, reciting the notes she had read a thousand times.
“The only person who possessed the master keys to the Blackwood security gates was Marcus Vance.”
“Why would Marcus want to kill his employer’s children?” Roman asked, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.
“Because Arthur had established a strict dynastic trust,” Clara explained.
“If Arthur died without surviving biological heirs, the entire DeLuca shipping network would revert to the executive trustees.”
“Marcus Vance stood to inherit total executive control of billions of dollars in maritime assets.”
“Then how did I survive?” Roman asked, his gray eyes searching Clara’s face for an answer.
“My mother smelled the kerosene before the alarms sounded,” Clara said, tears pricking her eyes at the memory.
“She ran into the burning wing and found the nursery engulfed in flames.”
“She managed to pull one child out through the French balcony before the ceiling collapsed.”
“The other child had already succumbed to the smoke inside the locked bedroom.”
“My mother suffered third-degree burns across both hands dragging you down the stone trellis in the pouring rain.”
“When she reached the lawn, she realized the boy she had saved was Daniel, not Roman.”
Roman stared down at his own hands, his breathing shallow and rapid.
“And my father?” Roman asked hoarsely.
“When Arthur returned, he was completely broken by the tragedy,” Clara continued.
“Marcus Vance convinced Arthur that the public scandal of an illegitimate survivor would destroy the company’s stock.”
“Worse, Marcus threatened to reveal Arthur’s secret affair unless Arthur agreed to a cover-up.”
“They buried the real Roman under an unmarked grave in the country.”
“Then they erased Daniel’s birth records, brought you to Switzerland for two years, and gave you your dead brother’s name.”
“Doctor Robert Vance put you on cognitive suppressants to ensure you never remembered your real mother or your true name.”
A heavy pounding suddenly shook the study door, shattering the quiet room.
“Roman! Unlock this door this instant!” Marcus Vance’s voice bellowed through the thick wood.
“Security has confirmed the girl is in there with you!”
“She is a dangerous corporate infiltrator, Roman! Step away from her and open the door!”
Roman looked toward the heavy iron lock, his expression turning into cold, unyielding steel.
He reached behind the oil painting of his father, pressing a hidden brass release valve built into the wall.
A narrow panel in the wainscoting slid open smoothly, revealing a dark, spiraling service staircase leading down into the foundations.
“Take this,” Roman said, slipping a heavy brass keycard and an encrypted black burner phone into Clara’s cold hands.
“This opens the private boathouse at the southern edge of the estate on the river.”
“Go down these stairs, through the wine cellars, and out through the garden drainage tunnel.”
“What about you?” Clara asked, terror gripping her chest.
May you like
“I am going to face the man who stole my life,” Roman replied, his eyes flashing like lightning in the dark.
“Go, Clara. If Marcus catches you here, you will not survive the night.”
