Chapter 1 - The Boston TerminalThe black Gulfstream G550 cut through the heavy cloud cover above Logan International Airport, landing on the rain-slicked tarmac at 1:15 AM.
I sat in the leather armchair of the private cabin, staring down at the single photograph resting on my knee. Outside the window, the city lights of Boston blurred through the driving rain like smeared oil paint.
Marcus sat across from me in total silence. In twelve years of leading my security detail, he had never seen me like this. My suit jacket was unbuttoned, my tie pulled loose, my jaw covered in rough, dark stubble. The untouchable, calculating chairman of the Moretti Organization—the man who commanded half of Chicago's commercial ports and underground networks—had been reduced to a ghost staring at a piece of photographic paper.
"Tell me about the man on the phone, Marcus," I said, my baritone voice rasping through the quiet cabin. "His name. His background. Everything."
Marcus pulled a heavy manila folder from his leather briefcase and opened it on the table between us.
"His name is Julian Sterling," Marcus reported smoothly. "Thirty-six years old. Former chief of pediatric neurosurgery at Massachusetts General, currently operating a private medical research consultancy."
"Julian Sterling," I repeated, tasting the name like ash in my mouth. "How long has he been in her life?"
"Two years, Adrian," Marcus answered softly, his eyes locking onto mine with grave concern. "He moved into the Beacon Hill townhouse eighteen months ago. The neighbors know them as Mr. and Mrs. Sterling."
The words struck my chest like a physical blow.
Mrs. Sterling.
For three years, I had convinced myself that Evelyn was living a quiet, peaceful life on her half of our divorce settlement. I had believed she walked away because she couldn't handle the strain of my world—the midnight phone calls, the bodyguards, the constant threat of federal indictments.
I had been blind. She hadn't left because of my world. She had left because I had abandoned her in it.
"And the children?" I asked, my fingers trembling slightly as I touched the edge of the photograph where my little girl sat in the double stroller. "Do they carry his name?"
"On the Boston birth certificates," Marcus hesitated, pulling a second sheet from the folder, "the father's name is listed as Julian Sterling. The children are named Leo and Clara."
Leo and Clara.
My hands tightened into fists so hard the paper crumpled beneath my thumb. Leo had been my grandfather's name. Clara had been Evelyn's mother.
She had used our family names, but she had given my blood to a stranger.
"Get the cars ready," I commanded, standing up, pulling my heavy wool coat over my shoulders. "We're going to Beacon Hill."
"Adrian," Marcus warned, stepping in front of the cabin door. "It's two in the morning. If you march onto that street with six armed men, you're going to create a scene that brings the local police and the press. You aren't in Chicago. You don't own the precincts here."
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I looked at Marcus—at the man who had taken a bullet for me in Miami five years ago—and my gray eyes flashed with a cold, terrifying light that made even him take a small step back.
"Marcus," I whispered softly. "My children are sleeping inside that house. I don't care if I have to burn the entire state of Massachusetts to the ground. I am stepping through that front door tonight."
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