Chapter 8 - The Child in the PhotographStallone couldn't speak.
A second child.
Another secret.
He turned the photograph over again.
The handwriting belonged to his wife.
He knew it immediately.
The words were simple.
“He is alive.”
Stallone stared.
A small noise came from behind him.
Noah.
The boy had followed.
“Daddy?”
Stallone dropped the photograph.
He rushed toward him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you.”
“You can't come here alone.”
Noah pointed down the corridor.
“There.”
“What?”
“The blue room.”
Stallone looked toward the end.
A narrow door was visible.
Blue paint.
His wife had mentioned it.
Again.
The boy walked closer.
“My mama told me.”
“What did she tell you?”
“To remember the door.”
Stallone opened it.
Inside was a child's bedroom.
Old.
Dusty.
Untouched.
There were toys.
A small bed.
A faded blanket.
And photographs on the wall.
Stallone entered slowly.
The room smelled like cedar.
Then he saw the name carved into the headboard.
ADAM.
He turned to Noah.
“Who is Adam?”
Noah shrugged.
“I don't know.”
A hidden drawer beneath the bed contained documents.
Birth certificate.
Hospital records.
Photographs.
The child named Adam had been born eleven months before Noah.
Mother: Elise Stallone.
Father: Stallone.
His hands began shaking.
The document was real.
His wife had given birth to another child.
Before Noah.
A son.
And someone had erased him from the family's public history.
Stallone's mother entered the room.
She looked at the papers.
“I knew you'd find this.”
“Where is he?”
She didn't answer.
“Where is my son?”
Helen looked at Noah.
“Alive.”
“Where?”
“He was taken.”
“By whom?”
She closed her eyes.
“Your father.”
Stallone turned toward the old man.
“He took my child?”
“He thought it was the only way to protect him.”
“From what?”
“From the person who wanted all of you dead.”
Stallone's anger exploded.
“You manipulated everyone.”
“I did.”
“You hid my first son.”
“I did.”
“You watched Noah get abused.”
Helen's eyes filled with tears.
“I failed him.”
Stallone stared.
“For years, I believed my life was normal.”
“It was never normal.”
His father's voice came from the doorway.
“Because we built it on a lie.”
Then the mansion alarm sounded.
Gideon rushed in.
“Sir, we have a breach.”
“Where?”
“Front gates.”
“Police?”
“Not police.”
“How many?”
“Six vehicles.”
Stallone looked at the photograph.
“Whose?”
Gideon hesitated.
“Private security.”
“Who hired them?”
“They carry Richard Vale's company markings.”
Stallone looked at Richard.
Richard wasn't there.
He had disappeared.
Helen whispered:
“He's coming for the children.”
Stallone grabbed Noah.
“Gideon, secure the house.”
Then a gunshot cracked through the mansion.
Everyone froze.
Another.
Glass shattered somewhere downstairs.
Gideon drew his weapon.
“Move!”
Stallone carried Noah toward the safe room.
His father followed.
Helen remained behind.
Stallone shouted:
“Mom!”
She shook her head.
“Go.”
“Now.”
“I need to stop him.”
“Who?”
Helen looked at him.
“Richard.”
A third gunshot echoed.
Stallone reached the safe room.
The door sealed.
Inside were three monitors.
One showed the front gate.
One showed the west wing.
One showed Noah's bedroom.
Then the third screen changed.
A man appeared.
Richard Vale.
He was sitting in a chair.
Beside him was a boy.
About six years old.
Dark hair.
Pale face.
Stallone stepped closer.
The boy looked directly into the camera.
Then he spoke.
“Dad?”
Stallone nearly dropped Noah.
The boy on the screen was Adam.
His first son.
Alive.
Richard smiled.
“Now you understand why everyone was so afraid of the truth.”
The screen flickered.
Richard leaned closer.
“You have one hour.”
“For what?”
“To choose which son you save.”
The screen went black.
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At that exact moment, Gideon's voice shouted through the intercom.
“Sir, the west wing is on fire.”
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