the second signature
The headlights from the street threw long, jagged shadows across the small apartment living room.
Harold immediately moved to the window, peering through the worn blinds. "Lucas," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "We have company downstairs. Unmarked van. Four men just stepped out."
Lucas didn't look at the window. His eyes remained fixed on Anna, who was struggling to sit up on the couch, her pale face flushed with fever.
"Harold, take Emma and two men out through the fire escape," Lucas ordered smoothly. "Get her to the estate."
"No!" Anna gasped, leaning forward, her voice cracking. "Don't take her! Please!"
Emma gripped the edge of Lucas's dark trousers, looking between her mother and the intimidating man standing over them. "Mommy, he brought the car. He's helping."
Lucas knelt beside the couch, his massive frame blocking Anna from the view of the window. "No one is taking your daughter, Anna. But if those men come up those stairs, this room becomes a battlefield. Let Harold take her to safety. You come with me."
Anna looked into Lucas's dark eyes, searching for something—a flicker of the man she used to know or the monster the streets said he had become. Slowly, she gave a weak nod to Emma.
"Go with Mr. Kane, baby," Anna whispered. "Mommy will be right behind you."
Harold pulled Emma toward the back exit, his radio buzzing quietly in his ear. Within seconds, the heavy metal door clicked shut behind them.
Lucas turned back to Anna. He extended his hand. She took it, her skin burning against his cool palm. As he helped her to her feet, his coat fell slightly open, revealing the second note still tucked against his palm.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"I have to," she said softly.
He didn't wait. He scooped her up into his arms, ignoring her faint protest, and carried her down the narrow service hallway toward the building's side exit.
As they reached the dark alleyway, the heavy crunch of boots on wet gravel echoed from the main entrance. The men from the van were already inside.
Lucas loaded Anna into the back of his armored SUV just as his driver hit the accelerator. The vehicle lurked into the rainy night, leaving the apartment complex behind.
Inside the quiet cabin of the car, the leather seats were plush and warm. Anna slumped against the corner, her breathing shallow as the heat turned on. Lucas sat opposite her, his arms folded across his chest, observing her every movement.
"How long have you been in Boston?" Lucas asked.
"Three weeks," Anna replied, looking out the tinted window at the blurred city lights. "We moved at night."
"Who are you running from?"
"You know who," she said softly, turning her pale blue eyes—the exact same shade as Emma's—to meet his. "The same people who told you I died fifteen years ago."
Lucas’s jaw tightened. "My father told me you died in the fire at the harbor. I saw the casualty report. I saw the police file."
"Your father lied to you, Lucas," Anna said, her voice laced with an old, deep bitterness. "He didn't want a Carter anywhere near the Blackwood empire. So he made sure I disappeared."
Lucas remained silent, but his mind was racing. Fifteen years ago, his father, Victor Blackwood, had ruled the family with an iron fist. Victor had eliminated anyone who threatened the bloodline's purity or control. When Anna vanished, Lucas had burned down three rival docks looking for her, believing she had been killed by a rival syndicate.
That war had solidified Lucas’s path to becoming the head of the Blackwood family.
"If Victor wanted you dead, you wouldn't be breathing right now," Lucas said, his voice cold and analytical. "Why let you live?"
"Because I had something he couldn't take by force," Anna said. She reached into her thin jacket pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out an old, faded leather diary. "He thought I destroyed it. But I kept it."
She held it out to him.
Lucas took the diary. The leather was cracked, smelling of damp earth and old ink. As he opened the cover, a single folded piece of yellowed paper fell out onto his lap.
It was an old property contract from twenty years ago—a land transfer signed by his late father, Victor Blackwood.
But it wasn't Victor's signature that caught Lucas's attention.
Below Victor’s name was a second signature, written in bold, dark stroke.
Arthur Vance.
Lucas stared at the name. Arthur Vance was the head of the Vance Syndicate—the Blackwood family's most hated enemy, the man responsible for a decade of blood in the streets of Boston. The official history claimed the Blackwoods and the Vances had been at war for forty years.
Yet here was a legal document showing Victor Blackwood and Arthur Vance signing a joint venture twenty years ago, transferring millions of dollars in untraceable assets to an offshore account.
"This is impossible," Lucas muttered. "My father would never deal with a Vance."
"He didn't just deal with him," Anna whispered, her voice dropping to a fragile, dangerous whisper. "They built the foundation together. Your father didn't kill Arthur Vance fifteen years ago, Lucas. They faked it."
May you like
Before Lucas could digest the words, the SUV lurched violently.
A sharp metallic crunch echoed through the cabin as a heavy dark truck slammed directly into the side of their vehicle, forcing the armored SUV off the road and smashing into the concrete barrier of the harbor bridge.
