CHAPTER 2: The Mansion on the Hill

The front gates groaned open.

The driver didn’t wait. As soon as the wheels hit the gravel driveway, the black SUV surged forward, its tires crunching over stone as it curved toward the grand marble staircase of the Dela Vega estate. Towering white columns lined the entrance, catching the dying light of the late afternoon.

Before the engine even finished sighing, the rear door flew open.

A pair of tiny legs hit the ground.

Damien bolted.

He darted through the wide foyer, past the housekeeper’s outstretched hands, and up the sweeping staircase two steps at a time. His black school shoes slapped loudly against the marble, blazer slipping off one narrow shoulder.

Tears clung stubbornly to his lashes, and a sob caught in his throat. His mop of dark curls bounced with every step, his round cheeks flushed red. He was small for five—slender and pale, with eyes too big for his face and a heart too easy to bruise. Sensitive. Expressive. Always leading with emotion.

Lucien Dela Vega heard the footsteps before he saw them.

He was seated in his private study, a whiskey glass resting on a thick file. The fire flickered low beside him, casting slow-moving shadows across shelves lined with first editions and gleaming hunting rifles.

He raised his eyes slowly as the doors burst open.

“Damien.”

The boy stopped just past the threshold, panting, shoulders trembling, fists curled tightly at his sides.

Lucien stood up. Every inch of his tall, imposing frame unfolded with quiet authority. He wore a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A silver chain glinted at the hollow of his throat. His black hair was neatly combed back, his jaw sharp and set in unreadable calm. His presence filled the room long before he spoke.

He walked around the desk and knelt in front of his son.

“Look at me.”

Damien raised his head. His lower lip trembled, but he met his father’s gaze.

“She said I’m not her son.”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. But his voice remained even.

“Did she hurt you?”

Damien shook his head.

“Did she yell? Push you? Curse at you?”

“No,” he whispered. “She just... walked away.”

Lucien nodded once. That was enough.

He placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder. “Go change. Nora made your favorites for dinner.”

Damien hesitated. Then he nodded and turned away, his small frame still stiff with confusion.

Lucien waited until the boy’s footsteps faded.

Then he turned, walked to the fireplace, and poured the rest of his whiskey into the flames.

The fire hissed.

He crossed to the far side of the room and pressed a button hidden behind an oil painting—an old ship battling stormy waves. A soft mechanical click echoed. A concealed cabinet slid open, revealing sleek black weapons and a drawer locked by fingerprint.

He ignored the weapons.

Instead, he pulled out a tablet and tapped the security icon.

The screen flickered to life.

Dots blinked across a city map. He zoomed in on the park. Rewound.

There.

The bench. The walking path. The moment Damien stopped in front of her.

Lucien leaned forward.

She turned—Siena.

The pause in her stride. The faint alarm in her face.

She hadn’t screamed.

She hadn’t pushed him away.

Her lips had moved. He read them with ease.

“Wrong person, kid.”

But her eyes told a different story.

Lucien narrowed his gaze. Her expression—confused, shaken, yet strangely... moved. Then her hand, mid-motion, reached halfway toward Damien before she caught herself and pulled back.

A small, instinctive gesture.

One he remembered.

He opened another image on the tablet—a photo from the hospital. Siena, pale and exhausted, cradling a newborn. Her hand hovering, unsure but drawn forward. As if the baby would vanish if she touched him.

The same gesture.

He tapped the screen.

The image froze.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s her.”

He pressed the intercom. “Marco.”

Seconds later, Marco entered. Tall, lean, and military-grade serious. Tailored grey suit. Buzzcut. A permanent five-o’clock shadow and a habit of chewing pen caps like he didn’t realize he was doing it. His eyes, always moving, always reading the room.

“Sir.”

Lucien didn’t glance away from the screen. “Find her.”

“Name?”

“Siena.”

“Any identification?”

“I said find her.”

Marco nodded once and left. He didn’t need more. He had worked for Lucien long enough to know what that tone meant.

Lucien leaned against the edge of the desk, fingers tightening on the wood.

And then the memory returned.

White lights. The smell of bleach. Machines beeping. A pale face. A nurse whispering, “She may not survive the night.”

Her hand, cold and still, had twitched once in his grasp. Just once.

Then nothing.