Chapter 3 - the house on the cliff
The rain had turned into a downpour by the time Cole’s armored SUV pulled into the driveway of his private estate perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the coast. The mansion was a fortress—steel-reinforced glass, encrypted security grids, and twelve heavily armed guards patrolling the grounds.
Hannah sat in the back seat, holding a sleeping Owen against her chest. She looked out the tinted window at the dark outline of the house.
"Is this where you live now?" she asked softly.
"It's where you and Owen are staying until I find out who breached Harold's study," Cole said from the front seat. "No one enters or leaves without my personal clearance."
They carried Owen upstairs to a guest suite overlooking the ocean. Cole watched in silence as Hannah gently pulled off the boy's shoes and tucked him under the heavy duvet. For eight years, Cole had envisioned his life ending on a bullet-riddled street. He had never imagined standing in a quiet bedroom, watching his former love tuck their son into bed.
"He looks like you when he sleeps," Hannah murmured, stepping back from the bed.
"He has your chin," Cole said gently, his voice softening for the first time all day. "And your stubbornness."
Hannah offered a small, weary smile, but it quickly faded. "Cole, you shouldn't have brought us here. If the council finds out Owen is your biological son, the old blood laws apply. They'll demand he be placed under syndicate guardianship."
"Over my dead body," Cole said coldly. "The syndicate dies with Harold if I say so. I run this family now."
"You run the streets, Cole," Hannah corrected him, taking a step closer. "But Harold told me the board runs the money. And whoever broke into Harold's study today isn't looking for power. They're looking for the ledger."
Cole reached into his pocket and pulled out the brass key that had been tucked inside Harold's letter. "Vault 412. Harold left explicit instructions to open it before midnight."
Suddenly, the door to the bedroom creaked open. Owen stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, holding a small leather-bound sketchbook in his hand.
"Daddy?" Owen asked quietly, using the word for the very first time.
Cole felt something shift deep in his chest—a sudden, fierce instinct that made every empire he built feel utterly worthless compared to the boy standing before him. Cole crouched down so he was at eye level with his son.
"Yeah, buddy?" Cole asked softly.
"Grandpa Harold told me to show you this if anyone asked about the wooden pieces," Owen said, holding out his sketchbook.
May you like
Cole took the pad and flipped it open. On the first page was a detailed pencil sketch drawn by a seven-year-old hand, depicting a dark room with a heavy safe. Standing beside the safe was a man wearing a distinctive signet ring—a raven holding a broken dagger.
Cole's jaw clenched. The ring belonged to Julian—his most trusted lieutenant, the man standing outside the front door right now.
