Chapter 70 - The Second Daughter
The silence that followed Elena's voice over the intercom was suffocating.
Vincent lowered his gun, his jaw set in a line of pure granite. "She doesn't have enough explosives to bring down the southern wing. The foundations are solid bedrock."
"She doesn't need to destroy the bedrock, Vincent," I said, stepping between him and the door. "The southern wing sits over the subterranean water cisterns. If she collapses the cistern vaults, the hydraulic pressure will blow the floors upward from below. My mother designed that drainage network. Elena knows every valve."
Vincent turned to Salvatore. "Take four men. Secure the cistern cutoff valves in the sub-basement. Silent weapons only. If you encounter hostiles, do not engage in a firefight near the fuel lines."
"On it," Salvatore nodded once and vanished down the corridor, moving with the quiet swiftness of a predator.
I turned back toward the bed. Maya had peeked out from beneath the duvet, her wide hazel eyes darting between me and Vincent. She didn't cry; she had learned during our five years on the run that silence was the only thing that kept us alive. But the terror on her small face tore my soul to ribbons.
"Mommy? Who was that lady on the radio?" she whispered.
I sat on the edge of the bed and cupped her face in my hands. "That was someone I used to know, baby. But you don't need to worry. Mommy is here. And Vincent... Vincent is going to make sure nothing happens to us."
It was the first time I had ever acknowledged Vincent's role as a protector in front of our daughter. Vincent stood motionless near the threshold, his gaze fixed on Maya. A tremor of raw emotion broke through his hardened demeanor—a fierce, possessive tenderness that he couldn't completely conceal.
"I will go down to the hall," I said, standing up and facing Vincent. "Alone."
"Over my dead body," he growled.
"Elena wants me. She wants to see if I am still her obedient little sister who blindly followed her orders," I insisted. "If you walk into that hall with your guns drawn, she will detonate the cisterns without a second thought. You know how my family operates. We don't bluff."
"You are not walking into an ambush without backup, Clara," Vincent said, stepping closer until his chest brushed mine. "You might know her tactics, but you don't know who she works for now. You think she’s doing this for your family’s honor? Look at this."
He pulled up a dossier on his phone and shoved it into my hands.
The documents were bank transfers traced through offshore accounts in Cyprus and Panama. The sender was a numbered account linked to the Moretti patriarch's old trust. But the recipient wasn't Elena Vane.
It was an account registered under the name *Clara Vane*.
"What is this?" I gasped, shaking my head. "I never saw a single cent of this money! I worked twelve-hour shifts at a bakery in Valencia just to pay for Maya’s vaccinations!"
"I know," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "Because someone else was cashing the checks under your name. Someone who shares your blood, your facial structure, and your fingerprints."
I looked at the document again, my blood running cold.
The transfers had begun three years before I ever met Vincent. And attached to the bottom of the bank clearance form was a birth certificate.
Not mine. Not Elena’s.
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It was a birth certificate for a second child born to Francesca Vane thirty years ago—a twin sister I had never been told existed.
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