Chapter 2- The Man on the Phone
2049 Words
“Come home, daughter.”
The words stayed in Isabella's head long after the call ended.
She stared at the phone.
Her fingers had gone numb.
Marcus Vale stood a few feet away, watching her with an expression she'd never seen on a man's face before.
Fear.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Fear.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
“Give me the phone.”
Isabella tightened her grip.
“No.”
Marcus took a slow breath.
“You don't understand what you're holding.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't.”
“Can't?”
She laughed bitterly.
“My mother disappears. Men try to murder me. You show up claiming my dead father was a crime lord, and now someone calling himself my father tells me not to trust you.”
She pointed the phone at him.
“So, forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to hand this over.”
Marcus's jaw tightened.
“That voice wasn't your father.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know Alexander Veyron.”
“You said he was dead.”
“He is.”
“Then how does a dead man know my name?”
Marcus didn't answer.
That was enough to make Isabella's stomach twist.
She stepped closer.
“You're hiding something.”
“Of course I am.”
The honesty caught her off guard.
Marcus looked toward the warehouse entrance.
“We need to leave.”
“No.”
“Isabella—”
“No.”
Her voice cracked, but she didn't care.
“I've spent my entire life being told nothing. My mother never told me who my father was. She never told me why we moved every few years. She never told me why she checked the locks three times before going to bed.”
She swallowed.
“And now she's gone.”
Marcus's expression softened.
“She knew this day might come.”
“What day?”
“The day they found you.”
“Who are they?”
Marcus looked at the bodies scattered across the warehouse.
“Everyone who wants your father's empire.”
Isabella stared at him.
“I don't want an empire.”
“You don't get to decide that.”
“Why not?”
“Because your blood already decided for you.”
Before Isabella could answer, a gunshot cracked outside.
Marcus moved instantly.
He grabbed Isabella and pulled her behind a concrete pillar.
Another shot.
Then another.
His men scattered.
“Get her out!” Marcus shouted.
A bullet struck the pillar above Isabella's head.
Dust fell over them.
“Are there more of them?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
Marcus pulled his gun.
“Stay behind me.”
“I can walk by myself.”
“That's not what I said.”
He leaned around the pillar and fired twice.
A distant scream followed.
Marcus looked back at her.
“Move.”
They ran.
The warehouse erupted again.
Isabella followed Marcus through a side door and into a narrow alley.
Three black cars waited there.
Marcus opened the rear door.
“Get in.”
Isabella hesitated.
He looked at her.
“Unless you'd rather go back inside.”
She got in.
Marcus followed.
The car accelerated before the door had completely shut.
Isabella pressed herself against the seat.
Rain streaked across the windows.
For the first time that night, nobody was shooting at her.
But she couldn't relax.
She looked at Marcus.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
“I don't have a home.”
“You do now.”
She almost laughed.
“That's convenient.”
Marcus ignored the sarcasm.
“The Veyron estate is the safest place in Blackridge.”
“I don't want to go there.”
“You don't have a choice.”
“Yes, I do.”
She reached for the door handle.
Marcus caught her wrist.
“Don't.”
His voice was quiet.
Not threatening.
Worried.
“If you step out of this car, you'll be dead before you reach the next street.”
Isabella looked into his eyes.
“Why do you care?”
Marcus released her.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he looked out the window.
“Because I failed your father once.”
Isabella went still.
“What happened?”
Marcus's face hardened.
“Not tonight.”
She stared at him.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
He didn't respond.
The car continued through the city.
A few minutes later, the skyline changed.
The crowded streets disappeared.
Tall iron gates appeared ahead.
Two armed guards stepped forward.
The gates opened.
The car passed through.
Isabella looked outside.
The estate was enormous.
Stone walls.
Black iron balconies.
A massive fountain in the center of the courtyard.
Security cameras everywhere.
Men with weapons stood beneath the covered walkways.
It didn't look like a home.
It looked like a fortress.
Marcus got out first.
Isabella remained in the car.
“I'm not staying here.”
“You'll change your mind.”
“No, I won't.”
Marcus opened her door.
“Your mother stayed here once.”
Isabella froze.
“What?”
Marcus's eyes met hers.
“She lived here with Alexander.”
Her entire body went cold.
“You said my mother was hiding me from him.”
“I said she was hiding you.”
“Why?”
Marcus looked toward the mansion.
“Because she knew what your father had become.”
Isabella stepped out.
“What did he become?”
Marcus didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the entrance.
Isabella followed.
Inside, the mansion was even more intimidating.
Dark wooden floors.
Crystal chandeliers.
Paintings covering the walls.
Men and women stood silently as Isabella entered.
Every face turned toward her.
Nobody spoke.
But she could feel their eyes.
Judging.
Measuring.
Wondering.
Marcus stopped in front of a massive portrait.
Isabella looked up.
The man in the painting wore a black suit.
His expression was cold.
His eyes were sharp.
And yet—
Isabella couldn't look away.
She knew those eyes.
Not because she'd seen the man.
Because she'd seen them in the mirror.
Marcus stood beside her.
“Alexander Veyron.”
Isabella stared at the portrait.
“He looks like me.”
Marcus nodded.
“You have his eyes.”
She hated how much that frightened her.
A woman descended the staircase.
She was elegant, perhaps in her early fifties, wearing a dark emerald dress.
Her eyes immediately settled on Isabella.
Unlike everyone else, she didn't look surprised.
She looked angry.
“She's here,” the woman said.
Marcus nodded.
“Yes.”
The woman walked toward them.
“Isabella.”
“You know my name.”
“Everyone in this house knows your name.”
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled faintly.
“Cassandra Veyron.”
Isabella's heart skipped.
“Veyron?”
“Alexander was my brother.”
So this was her aunt.
The woman stepped closer.
Isabella expected a hug.
Instead, Cassandra studied her face.
“You look exactly like your mother.”
“Did you know her?”
“Very well.”
“Where is she?”
Cassandra's expression changed.
“I don't know.”
“That's a lie.”
A few people nearby shifted uneasily.
Marcus looked at Isabella.
Cassandra, however, smiled.
“You have his temper too.”
“Tell me where my mother is.”
“If I knew, I'd tell you.”
“Then tell me about my father.”
Cassandra glanced at the portrait.
“Your father was a complicated man.”
“I don't want complicated.”
Isabella's voice shook.
“I want the truth.”
Cassandra's smile disappeared.
“The truth is that your father had enemies everywhere. Some wanted his money. Some wanted his power. Some wanted him dead.”
“And you?”
Cassandra looked directly into Isabella's eyes.
“I wanted him to survive.”
Isabella didn't know whether to believe her.
Then Cassandra reached into her handbag.
She pulled out a small black envelope.
“This belonged to your father.”
Isabella took it.
Her name was written across the front.
ISABELLA.
Her breathing stopped.
“Why does he have something with my name on it?”
Cassandra's eyes darkened.
“Because he knew one day you'd come home.”
Isabella opened the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
She pulled it out.
It showed a much younger Alexander.
Standing beside her mother.
And between them—
A little girl.
Isabella stared at the photograph.
The child couldn't have been more than six.
Her mother was smiling.
Alexander was smiling.
And Isabella—
She looked happy.
But Isabella had never seen this photograph.
She turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
Her father's handwriting.
Three words.
I'M SORRY, ISABELLA.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“For what?”
Nobody answered.
Then a voice came from the staircase.
“Because he knew what was coming.”
Everyone turned.
A man stood there.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Black shirt.
Dark eyes.
He looked younger than Marcus, but there was something dangerous about the way he carried himself.
His gaze settled on Isabella.
Marcus immediately stiffened.
“You're not supposed to be here.”
The man ignored him.
Isabella looked at him.
“Who are you?”
He walked down the stairs.
“Adrian Cross.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Leave.”
Adrian stopped.
“I came because she needs to know the truth.”
Marcus's hand moved toward his weapon.
Adrian smiled.
“Still protecting dead men, Marcus?”
The room went silent.
Isabella looked between them.
“You two know each other.”
Adrian's eyes remained on her.
“I knew your father.”
“How?”
“He trusted me.”
Marcus scoffed.
“That was his mistake.”
Adrian finally looked at him.
“And you were the one who betrayed him.”
Marcus's expression hardened.
Isabella stepped between them.
“Stop.”
Both men looked at her.
She held up the photograph.
“I don't care who hates who.”
Her voice was shaking now.
“But somebody is going to tell me what happened to my father.”
Adrian studied her for several seconds.
Then he said something that made every person in the room freeze.
“Your father didn't die eighteen years ago.”
Isabella's heart stopped.
Marcus immediately said, “Adrian.”
But it was too late.
Isabella stared at him.
“What did you say?”
Adrian walked closer.
“Alexander Veyron disappeared eighteen years ago.”
“That's not the same as dying.”
“No.”
“Then where is he?”
Adrian's eyes hardened.
“That's what I've been trying to find out.”
Isabella looked at Marcus.
He wouldn't meet her eyes.
Her heart began pounding.
“You knew.”
Marcus remained silent.
“You knew my father might be alive.”
Still nothing.
Isabella backed away from both men.
For twenty-four years, she'd believed she was an ordinary woman.
Tonight she'd learned she was the daughter of a criminal legend.
Now she was being told that the father she'd mourned without ever knowing might still be alive.
Then the lights went out.
Complete darkness swallowed the mansion.
Someone screamed.
A gunshot exploded upstairs.
Then another.
Marcus shouted:
“GET HER DOWN!”
Isabella dropped.
Bullets tore through the staircase railing.
People scattered.
Adrian grabbed Isabella's hand.
“Come with me.”
She pulled away.
“I don't trust you.”
“Good.”
Another bullet struck the wall beside them.
Adrian looked at her.
“You shouldn't trust anyone in this house.”
Then he pulled a gun from beneath his jacket.
And for the first time, Isabella noticed something carved into the weapon.
A small black crown.
The same symbol she'd seen on the stolen phone.
Adrian looked toward the darkness.
“They found you.”
Isabella's blood ran cold.
“Who?”
Adrian's eyes met hers.
“The people who killed your father.”
A pause.
Then he whispered:
“And this time, they're not here to kill you.”
He looked toward the upper floor.
“They're here to take you alive.”
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