Chapter 2 - The Race Against the Storm
The twin-turbo engine of Ethan’s black Range Rover roared as it cleared the wrought-iron gates of St. Jude’s, its tires cutting through standing water on Commonwealth Avenue.
In the passenger seat, Lucy sat wrapped in two emergency wool blankets from the rear cargo compartment, the heater vents blowing maximum warmth across her bare, blue-tinted feet. In her lap, she clutched the faded tan envelope against her ribs as if it were an oxygen tank.
Ethan glanced at the dashboard navigation screen: ST. ANTHONY'S HOSPICE — 18 MILES // ETA: 24 MINUTES.
"Talk to me, Lucy," Ethan said, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel with surgical focus as he wove through the torrential Boston traffic. "Tell me everything. How long has she been sick?"
"Since the winter," Lucy whispered, her teeth chattering less now as the heat filled the cabin. "She started coughing blood in January. She worked two jobs at the commercial bakery in Portland, but when she couldn't lift the flour sacks anymore, the manager let her go. We moved into the basement apartment behind the train depot."
Ethan felt a jagged, burning blade twist behind his breastbone.
While he had been sitting in private executive suites on State Street, dining at the Somerset Club, and approving twenty-million-dollar maritime vessel acquisitions, the only woman he had ever truly loved had been hauling hundred-pound sacks of flour in an unheated Maine warehouse to feed his child.
"Why didn't she call me, Lucy?" Ethan’s voice cracked, raw with unspeakable agony. "Even with the checks... why didn't she reach out?"
"She tried once," Lucy said, pulling a folded sheet of lined notebook paper from the envelope. "When I was six. I had pneumonia, and the hospital in Bangor said we needed twelve thousand dollars for the intensive care nursery. Mom drove to your office tower in Boston. But the lady at the front desk—the blonde lady with the pearls—met us in the lobby with two security guards."
Ethan’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. "Victoria."
"She told Mom that if we ever stepped onto Pierce property again, she would call Child Protective Services and have me placed in state foster care," Lucy wept, turning her gray eyes toward him. "She showed Mom a folder with legal papers saying you had signed a permanent denial of paternity and that you considered us criminal trespassers."
A sound tore from Ethan’s throat—a low, animalistic growl of pure, unadulterated rage that made the Range Rover’s interior feel suffocating.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, connected it to the vehicle's Bluetooth terminal, and dialed Marcus Vance, his chief of private corporate intelligence and former special operations commander.
"Marcus," Ethan commanded, his voice dropping into an octave of lethal, military precision.
"I’m here, Ethan," Marcus answered immediately. "My scouts at the chapel just reported the breakdown. The Hale family is currently attempting to contact the Boston Police Commissioner to issue a custodial interference alert on the girl."
"Listen to me carefully," Ethan said. "Deploy our primary private security detail to St. Anthony’s Hospice on South Street immediately. Lock down the fourth floor. Nobody enters that wing without my verbal authorization—not the police, not the Hale lawyers, and especially not Victoria’s private contractors."
"Consider the perimeter sealed," Marcus replied. "What else?"
"Call Dr. Alistair Sterling at Mass General," Ethan ordered. "I want the premier ECMO pulmonary critical care transport team mobilized and en route to St. Anthony’s within ten minutes. If Olivia is breathing when I get there, we are moving heaven and earth to keep her alive."
May you like
"Understood, Ethan. Move fast. The storm is worsening."
Ethan slammed the accelerator down, the heavy SUV leaping forward through the blinding rain, racing against the fading heartbeat of the woman he had spent nine years mourning in vain.
