Chapter 6
1045words
He moved cautiously, leveraging his corporate access to unearth long-buried records of the commercial war from a decade ago. Each document he discovered was another knife to the heart—his father was far more ruthless and calculating than he'd ever imagined.
Meanwhile, I activated my European contacts to compile evidence of Alistair's shadowy overseas operations. The man's ambitions extended far beyond business—into political bribery, money laundering, and even darker enterprises.
A week later, Damian summoned me to his private office and slid a confidential file across his desk.
"I found this—an internal investigation report on the Vanderbilt bankruptcy." His voice was leaden. "My father didn't just block your father's loan. He bribed tax officials, falsified audit reports, and even..." he paused, "sent threatening letters to your mother before she took her life."
I took the document, scanning the horrifying details. Each line was a blade twisting in my oldest wounds.
"Why would he do this?" I asked. "Just for business advantage?"
"Not just that." Damian's expression darkened. "I found earlier records. Your father was once my father's partner—they collaborated closely on many projects. But then your father discovered certain... improprieties and threatened to expose him."
"So Alistair struck first."
"Yes. Destroying the Vanderbilts wasn't just about eliminating a threat—it was about making an example. A warning to anyone who might consider crossing Alistair Blackwood."
I closed the file, suddenly light-headed. Truth is always crueler than fiction.
"We need something more concrete," I said. "These documents prove his crimes to us, but they won't stand up in court. We need recordings, video footage, or—"
"Or witnesses," Damian cut in. "I have someone in mind. James Harris, my father's former secretary. He's retired now, but he knows where the bodies are buried. If we could convince him to testify..."
"Would he be willing?"
"I don't know. But we have to try."
Over the next week, Damian hunted like a predator, tracking every suspicious move his father had made a decade ago.
He started with meeting logs, discovering that in the three months before the Vanderbilt collapse, his father had held numerous meetings with government officials he rarely contacted otherwise.
Next, through personal channels, he obtained records of the "routine" tax audit of Vanderbilt that year. The timing was surgical—precisely when Vanderbilt faced its most critical cash flow challenges.
Every thread led to the same chilling conclusion: this wasn't an opportunistic business strike but a meticulously planned execution.
The smoking gun remained with James Harris, his father's former personal secretary.
Harris had been retired for three years, living quietly in a Long Island home. After two days of careful persuasion, the once-loyal servant finally agreed to surrender recordings and documents that "were never supposed to exist."
"Mr. Blackwood," Harris said over the phone, his voice quavering, "some secrets I've kept far too long. Perhaps it's time for the truth to see daylight. Tomorrow at eight—I'll be waiting at my home."
Damian arrived at Harris's home precisely at eight.
The old man had everything organized in a thick manila envelope—recordings, photographs, and meeting minutes detailing Alistair's methodical plotting, his collusion with officials, and his surgical use of insider information to destroy the Vanderbilts.
"Your father..." Harris's hands trembled, "was colder than anyone I've ever known. Mr. Vanderbilt was a good man. His wife too. They deserved better than what happened to them."
Just as Damian reached for the evidence-filled envelope, every light in the living room went dark.
"Mr. Harris?" Damian's hand moved instinctively to his waist, where he kept his concealed handgun.
The answer came as a bullet shattering through the window.
Five red laser dots danced in the darkness—three centered on Harris's chest, two more targeting Damian's head and heart.
Damian's heart froze with sudden clarity.
In that moment, he understood—this wasn't just about silencing Harris. It was about eliminating both of them.
His father wanted him dead too.
Damian's military academy training kicked in. The instant he spotted the laser sights, he dove to the floor, simultaneously flipping a nearby sofa for cover.
Gunshots cracked through the air. Harris collapsed, bullets finding their mark. The rounds meant for Damian punched into the wall where he'd stood seconds before.
But it wasn't over.
Damian caught low voices outside the window—someone speaking into a radio: "Target One down. Target Two missed. Preparing to re-engage."
"Copy that. Evacuate in three minutes. Execute incineration protocol as planned."
Target One. Target Two.
On his father's hit list, he and Harris were merely code names to be crossed off.
Damian crawled out through the back door, hugging the ground. Three minutes later, from his hiding spot across the street, he watched Molotov cocktails turn the house into an inferno. Not just Harris's home—the neighboring house where Harris's son lived with his family of three went up in flames too.
Leave no trace. No witnesses. Not even his own flesh and blood.
Damian crouched across the street, watching the towering flames, his body shaking uncontrollably.
He remembered his father's casual remark that afternoon: "Damian, come home early tonight. Don't stay out."
Not concern—confirmation. Making sure the hit would succeed.
If he'd followed his father's suggestion and gone home early, his body would be among those in the inferno.
He pulled out his phone with trembling hands and dialed my number.
"Seraphina... no, Amelia." His voice shook. "We need to talk. Now."
An hour later, a man who looked like he'd crawled out of hell stood in my apartment. His clothes were filthy with dirt and soot, his eyes holding a despair I'd never witnessed before.
"He tried to kill me," Damian's first words hit like a physical blow. "My father tried to kill me."
He recounted the night's events in detail. When he described the Harris family's murder, his hands shook uncontrollably.
"Now you understand," I said quietly. "We're not fighting a businessman. We're fighting a monster who'll kill anyone to protect his secrets—even his own son."
"I want revenge." Damian's soft voice carried hatred so dense it seemed to thicken the air. "Not just for your family now, but for the Harris family too. Alistair Blackwood will pay for everything he's done."
"Then," I said, "let's plan our endgame."
