Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Rain
The memory hit Dominic like a physical hammer to the chest, leaving him breathless in the dim backstage corridor.
He remembered the bitter winter morning seven years ago. He remembered how cold his own voice had sounded when he told Rebecca that her digital signature had cleared the offshore wire transfers to an international competitor.
He had demanded an explanation. She had told him she was completely innocent, looking into his eyes with absolute honesty.
And in his blind, arrogant pride—convinced that every person in his life eventually betrayed him for money—he had chosen the forensic report handed to him by Vanessa Russo.
He had handed Rebecca an expedited divorce decree, severed her credit cards, and ordered his security team to escort her to the street with a single suitcase.
She hadn't fought him. She hadn't begged.
She had simply looked at him with an expression of shattered pity, whispered, You will regret this until your dying breath, Dominic, and walked out into the freezing sleet.
Now, standing in the chaotic aftermath of an assassination attempt, the horrific truth began to piece itself together in his mind.
She had been carrying his children. Three of them.
She had walked out of his penthouse pregnant with triplets, with no money, no home, and a reputation destroyed by corporate treason charges that he had quietly buried to avoid public scandal.
“Rebecca, please,” Dominic choked out, taking another step forward. “Someone just tried to put a bullet through your head. You can hate me for the rest of your life, but let me protect you and the kids right now.”
“I have protected them for six years without a single dime or a single bullet from you, Mr. Hale,” Rebecca retorted, pushing the fire door open with her shoulder.
“Mommy, who is that man?” Lily whispered, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses, her little brow furrowing into that exact crease Dominic knew so well.
“Nobody, sweetheart,” Rebecca replied smoothly, ushering the children through the door into the alleyway. “Just a stranger from the party.”
A stranger.
The word burned like acid in Dominic's throat. He lunged through the door after them, stepping out into the cold Manhattan drizzle.
A private armored van from the Saint Jude Children’s Research Foundation was already idling at the curb, its hazard lights blinking through the rain. Rebecca had spent the last five years building an independent non-profit foundation for pediatric trauma care, funding it entirely through her own work.
Two foundation security guards stepped forward, raising their hands toward Dominic. “Sir, step back from the director.”
“I am Dominic Hale,” he warned, his voice low and vibrating with dangerous authority. “Stand down before I have your licenses revoked by midnight.”
“Let him speak, Marcus,” Rebecca ordered calmly, turning around beside the open van door while her team loaded the children into the back seats.
Noah remained by the open door, watching Dominic with those unblinking gray eyes. The boy wasn't cowering; he was studying Dominic, taking in his height, his broad shoulders, and the blood trickling down Dominic’s temple from the shattered glass.
“You have thirty seconds, Dominic,” Rebecca said, her arms crossed against the damp chill.
“The shooter wasn't a random hitman, Rebecca,” Dominic said, stepping within two feet of her, his voice tight and urgent. “He was an elite contractor. The way he moved, the suppressed weapon, the position by the service exit—it was a professional assassination.”
Rebecca didn't look surprised. Her jaw remained tight. “I am aware.”
“You knew someone was targeting you?” Dominic gasped, his eyes widening.
“I didn't know who, but three weeks ago, our foundation’s medical supply chain in Boston was hacked,” Rebecca revealed, her eyes boring into his. “Someone tried to access the biological records of our donor registry. Specifically, the pediatric genetic mapping files for rare blood types.”
Dominic felt the blood drain from his face. “Rare blood types? Like the Rh-null variant?”
The Rh-null blood type was so extraordinarily rare that only fifty people on the planet possessed it.
Dominic carried the recessive marker in his family line.
“All three of them have it, Dominic,” Rebecca whispered, her voice finally cracking with maternal vulnerability. “Noah, Grace, and Lily. If one of them gets injured, standard hospital blood banks cannot save them. Someone was trying to scrub their medical profiles from the state registry.”
Dominic turned sharply toward the street, his mind firing like a supercomputer.
Who benefited from wiping out Rebecca and three children who shared Dominic Hale’s unique genetic bloodline?
Who stood to inherit the multi-billion-dollar Hale Holdings empire if Dominic died without a recognized biological heir?
Vanessa Russo.
Under the corporate trust bylaws Dominic had established five years ago during his darkest depressive spiral, if he died without direct descendants, seventy percent of Hale Holdings' non-voting shares and real estate assets defaulted to a private investment consortium managed by the Russo family.
Dominic pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, dialing Marcus Reed with a thumb that trembled with murderous rage.
“Marcus,” Dominic growled into the receiver.
May you like
“Boss, we’re sweeping the hotel,” Marcus answered.
“Forget the shooter for one minute,” Dominic commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze water. “Put an armed surveillance ring around Vanessa Russo right now. If she leaves that ballroom, shoot the tires off her car.”
