Chapter 8 - The Midnight Heist at Saint Jude's
The basement of the old iron foundry was filled with floor-to-ceiling rows of steel filing cabinets and legal ledgers.
A cast-iron stove radiated heat in the corner, boiling a battered kettle of black coffee.
Clara sat wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, her cut wrist cleaned and dressed with white medical gauze Julian had provided.
Daniel stood before a wide oak drafting table, his wet tuxedo jacket discarded, examining three yellowed files spread before him.
Julian Sterling paced behind the table, his spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, gesturing with a trembling finger.
“Arthur knew what Marcus was capable of,” Julian explained, the steam from his mug rising into the chilly air.
“When Marcus took control of the Blackwood estate, he systematically replaced every single domestic worker.”
“He paid the local fire marshal fifty thousand dollars to rule the Blackwood fire an accidental electrical short.”
“He created a fraudulent death record for Daniel DeLuca, stating the child perished from acute pulmonary asphyxiation.”
“Then, he swapped the identities while you were still in a medically induced coma at Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital.”
Daniel picked up a faded photograph of two little boys standing on a manicured lawn.
One had hazel eyes and a haughty smirk; the other had gray eyes, messy hair, and a toy boat tucked under his left arm.
“Why didn’t my father stop him?” Daniel asked, his voice thick with suppressed agony.
“Arthur was a brilliant financier, Daniel, but he was a moral coward,” Julian replied bluntly.
“Marcus discovered that Arthur’s entire initial shipping empire was financed through illegal offshore dummy corporations.”
“If that information became public, the DeLuca family would have been bankrupt and Arthur would have died in a penitentiary.”
“Marcus used that leverage to force Arthur into signing a secret codicil to the family trust.”
“What does the codicil state?” Clara asked, leaning forward over the table.
“It states that if Roman DeLuca is certified mentally incompetent by the primary family physician before his thirtieth birthday, full executive authority over the trust reverts permanently to the senior corporate adviser,” Julian said.
“Marcus Vance.”
“And my thirtieth birthday is in precisely fourteen days,” Daniel stated, his eyes hardening into flint.
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, Marcus is convening an emergency board meeting,” Julian warned, tapping the calendar on the wall.
“He has already drafted the conservatorship petition.”
“Doctor Robert Vance will provide a signed affidavit claiming you attacked him during a paranoid schizophrenic break at the gala.”
“Once the board signs that declaration, Marcus assumes absolute legal control of every ship, warehouse, and bank account in the DeLuca name.”
“How do we stop him?” Clara asked, her voice steady and resolute.
Julian pulled an old architectural blueprint from beneath a stack of ledgers.
“We beat him with the one piece of evidence he couldn't destroy: Arthur’s private biometric reserve at Saint Jude's Memorial.”
“When Arthur realized he was dying of cancer six years ago, he secretly banked certified biological tissue samples in the hospital’s secure genetic vault.”
“He left instructions that if Daniel ever resurfaced, a comparative DNA test supervised by the state coroner would supersede any trust document.”
“Marcus knows this.”
“He has kept Saint Jude’s archives under twenty-four-hour surveillance by off-duty police officers for the past five years.”
“Then we go into Saint Jude’s tonight,” Daniel said without a second’s hesitation.
“It’s a fortress, Daniel,” Julian cautioned, shaking his head.
“Marcus has his pet enforcer, Captain Cross, stationed in the administrative wing.”
“Cross was the private investigator who helped Marcus torch Blackwood Manor eighteen years ago.”
“He won't arrest you; he will shoot you on sight and claim you were an armed trespasser.”
Daniel walked over to the cabinet where Julian kept his old tools, selecting a heavy iron crowbar and a roll of black friction tape.
“Captain Cross knows Roman DeLuca,” Daniel said, his jaw setting like concrete.
“Roman DeLuca was a terrified, chemically blinded recluse who spent eighteen years hiding behind desk reports.”
“He has never met Daniel.”
“Clara, stay here with Julian.”
Clara stood up immediately, shedding the wool blanket and stepping in front of him.
“No,” Clara said, her voice leaving no room for argument.
“My mother worked the pediatric floor of Saint Jude’s for twelve years.”
“I know every laundry chute, every utility shaft, and every blind spot in the basement security cameras.”
“You won’t make it past the sub-level pharmaceutical intake without me, Daniel.”
Daniel looked down into her fierce, unyielding hazel eyes.
For the first time since the glass shattered in the ballroom, a faint, genuine warmth flickered across his dark features.
May you like
“Put your boots on, Clara,” Daniel said quietly.
“We have a family to resurrect.”
