Chapter 3 - The Name Beneath the InkBeatrice stared at the birth certificate.
Her mind refused to process it.
Maggie was her sister.
Same mother.
Same home.
Same childhood.
Same scars from falling off the same bicycle.
Their father had been Michael Gallagher.
A quiet man who repaired elevators until cancer took him when Beatrice was nineteen.
At least, that was what she had always believed.
Dante took the document.
“Don't assume the name matters yet.”
“It has my sister's name.”
“That makes it matter.”
“No. It makes it impossible.”
He studied her.
“When did your father die?”
“2013.”
“Did your mother ever remarry?”
“No.”
“Did she ever mention the Wilkes family?”
Beatrice shook her head.
“Never.”
Dante handed the certificate back.
“Then we ask her.”
“My mother is in Connecticut.”
“Good.”
She stared.
“Good?”
“Because whoever is behind this expects you to panic.”
He glanced toward the security cameras.
“They're probably watching this hotel.”
“Then how do we leave?”
“We don't.”
Beatrice looked at him.
Dante smiled faintly.
“We make them think we're leaving.”
Thirty minutes later, a black sedan drove from the Halcyon Crown Hotel.
Its tinted windows hid the occupants.
Three blocks away, another car followed.
Inside the hotel, however, Beatrice sat inside an empty conference room.
Dante stood by the window.
“You're sure?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your security team is watching the wrong vehicles.”
Beatrice sat on the table.
“I don't understand your life.”
“You're not supposed to.”
“Then explain one thing.”
He turned.
“Why did you call me your queen?”
Dante studied her for a long moment.
“Because I needed everyone in that room to understand that touching you would be an act of war.”
“And now?”
“Now I don't need to pretend.”
Her heart skipped.
She hated that it did.
The conference room door opened.
One of Dante's men entered.
“She's safe.”
Beatrice stood.
“Maggie?”
He nodded.
“She was brought out through the underground garage ten minutes ago.”
Relief nearly broke her knees.
“Where is she?”
“Safe location.”
“Can I see her?”
Dante nodded.
“Yes.”
The drive took twenty minutes.
They arrived at an old brownstone on the Upper West Side.
Maggie rushed down the staircase the moment Beatrice entered.
They collided in an embrace.
“What happened?”
Beatrice held her tightly.
“Someone sent me photographs of you.”
Maggie's face changed.
“Photographs?”
“Yes.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“What?”
Maggie pulled back.
“This afternoon, a man came to my apartment.”
“Who?”
“I didn't know him.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked where you kept your father's papers.”
Beatrice stared.
“My father's papers?”
Maggie nodded.
Then she whispered:
“Mom told me never to tell you.”
The room went silent.
“Tell me what?”
Maggie looked toward Dante.
“Can he stay?”
Beatrice turned.
Dante was already walking away.
“I'll be outside.”
After he left, Maggie lowered her voice.
“Mom had a box.”
“What box?”
“Letters.”
“From Dad?”
“No.”
“From who?”
Maggie swallowed.
“Thomas Wilkes.”
Beatrice felt the floor tilt.
“Why would Thomas Wilkes write to Mom?”
“Because he wasn't just Father's friend.”
“What was he?”
Maggie reached into her coat.
She pulled out a photograph.
Two men stood beside a young woman.
The first was Michael Gallagher.
The second was Thomas Wilkes.
And the woman was Beatrice's mother.
On the back, in faded handwriting, were seven words:
She belongs to me. Always has.
Beatrice's stomach twisted.
“Maggie…”
“I found it this morning.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Mom called.”
“What did she say?”
Maggie started crying.
“She said Dad wasn't our father.”
Beatrice could barely breathe.
“Then who is?”
Maggie shook her head.
“Thomas Wilkes.”
The door opened.
Dante stood there.
His expression was grim.
“I heard enough.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“Is it true?”
He didn't answer.
“Dante.”
He stepped inside.
“I checked one thing while you were talking.”
“What?”
“The birth records.”
“And?”
“They were altered.”
“How?”
“Your sister was born six months earlier than the date on the official certificate.”
Beatrice stared.
“That can't be.”
“It can.”
“Who altered it?”
Dante looked at her.
“The same attorney who handled the Wilkes family's private trusts.”
Beatrice whispered:
“Who?”
Dante's answer was quiet.
“Charles Wilkes's father.”
Then Maggie's phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
Nobody spoke.
Instead, a recording played.
Their mother's voice.
“Beatrice, if you are hearing this, it's already too late.”
Then a man's voice interrupted.
“You should have stayed out of our books.”
A gunshot sounded.
The recording ended.
Maggie screamed.
Beatrice dropped the phone.
Dante was already moving.
“Where is your mother?”
Beatrice whispered:
“Connecticut.”
May you like
Dante looked at his watch.
“Then we have less than an hour.”
