Chapter 2 - The Fire in South BostonBy 6:00 A.M., the heavy autumn rain was pounding against the windshield of my Maybach as we tore up Interstate 95 toward Massachusetts at ninety miles an hour.
I sat in the rear passenger seat, staring at the blue legal folder resting on my lap. Clara wasn't asking for half my fortune. She wasn't asking for the Greenwich estate, the Hamptons beach house, or the penthouses in Manhattan.
Her attorney had attached a handwritten addendum signed in Clara's neat, elegant penmanship:
“I leave the empire to you, Alexander. I only take my daughter and my name. Do not send your lawyers. Do not send your money. Just let us exist.”
"She doesn't want a dollar, Marcus," I whispered into the quiet cabin, my voice hollow, raw, and completely drained of life. "She wants to erase me."
Marcus kept his eyes on the highway, his hands firm on the steering wheel. "A woman who endures six months of rumors doesn't leave because she wants your money, Alexander. She leaves when she realizes the man she loved doesn't exist anymore."
At 8:30 A.M., the car turned onto a narrow, rain-slicked street in South Boston, pulling up to the curb outside a modest two-story brick row house. It was the house where Clara had grown up—the house where her older sister, Hannah, lived.
I didn't wait for Marcus to open my door. I threw it open, stepping out into the pouring rain, my three-thousand-dollar wool coat soaking through instantly as I ran up the narrow brick steps to the porch.
I slammed my fist against the wooden door. "Clara! Clara, please! Open the door!"
No answer.
"Clara! I’m sorry! My God, I’m so sorry!" I yelled, my tears mixing with the freezing rain cutting down my face. "Let me see Lily! Please, just let me see my daughter!"
The heavy brass deadbolt clicked.
The door swung open, but it wasn't Clara who stood in the threshold.
It was her older sister, Hannah. She wore a thick knit cardigan, her dark hair pulled back, her eyes burning with a fierce, toxic hatred that made me step back a pace. Standing directly behind her in the hallway was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit—Captain Marco Reyes, a high-ranking officer in the Boston Police Department and a close family friend of Clara’s late father.
"Get off my porch, Alexander," Hannah spoke, her voice low, cold, and razor-sharp.
"Hannah, please," I begged, holding my hands up in desperate surrender. "I know I fucked up! I know I’m a bastard! Just let me speak to Clara for five minutes! Let me hold my daughter!"
"Your daughter doesn't want to see you, Alexander," Hannah spat, stepping onto the threshold, her voice trembling with rage. "Do you know what she did yesterday morning when she woke up in this house? She ran to the window every time a black car drove past, asking if it was her daddy coming to return her shoes!"
My stomach churned violently. A sickening, agonizing pain gripped my chest so hard I had to brace my hand against the wet brick porch wall to keep from falling.
"And do you know what Clara had to tell her?" Hannah continued, tears of fury filling her eyes. "She had to tell her that her daddy was still on a beach with his mistress! Get off my property before I have Marco arrest you for trespassing!"
"I'm not leaving without my family, Hannah!" I roared, taking a step forward.
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Captain Marco Reyes stepped into the doorway, resting his hand flat on my chest, exerting a solid, immovable force that stopped me in my tracks.
"Mr. Cole," Captain Reyes said coldly, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute authority. "There is an emergency temporary restraining order signed by a Suffolk County judge two hours ago. You step across this threshold, and I put you in steel handcuffs on national television. Walk back to your car."
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