Chapter 7 - The Duca Estate
The Duca family estate in Highland Park was vast, ancient, and fortress-like. Surrounded by twenty acres of private woodland along the shores of Lake Michigan, the stone mansion had stood for over eighty years as the supreme seat of power for the city’s underground hierarchy.
When the black convoy pulled through the wrought-iron gates at four in the morning, the entire household staff and security detail were lined up along the cobblestone driveway.
Word had spread through the syndicate with lightning speed: The daughter of Clara Ross has been found.
As Jane stepped out of the SUV alongside Marco, the older guards—men who had served under Clara twenty-three years ago—bowed their heads with deep, tearful respect. An old housekeeper wept openly, crossing herself as she looked upon Jane’s face.
Marco led Jane through the grand oak doors into a vast foyer featuring high ceilings, warm velvet tapestries, and a grand marble staircase.
At the center of the main hall hung a massive, oil-painted portrait framed in heavy gold leaf.
It was Clara Ross.
She was painted sitting in a high-backed leather chair, wearing a dark burgundy suit, holding a silver pocket watch, looking out at the viewer with serene, absolute authority.
Jane walked up to the portrait, standing beneath it. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like an outsider looking into a world she didn't belong to. She looked at the painting, then down at her own reflection in the polished marble floor.
The resemblance was absolute.
"This was her house," Marco said, standing beside her. "After our father died, Clara managed everything from this room. She expanded our shipping lines, built our legal holdings, and kept our enemies at bay."
"And what happened to her after she vanished?" Jane asked softly. "Did you ever find out where she was buried?"
Marco’s expression grew heavy. "We found a shallow grave near the river docks five years after she disappeared. A DNA test confirmed it was her. Charlotte had her executed once she realized she could take you and claim the trust funds attached to your name."
Jane closed her eyes, letting a single tear slip down her cheek. "She died protecting me."
"She died giving you a chance to live," Marco corrected gently. "And tonight, you brought her spirit back into this house."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an antique silver pocket watch—the exact same pocket watch depicted in Clara’s oil portrait. He set it carefully into Jane’s hand.
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"This belonged to your mother," Marco said. "It has been waiting twenty-three years for its owner."
Jane held the cool, heavy silver in her palm, tracing the intricate engravings on the casing. She opened the latch; the watch was still ticking, its rhythmic tick-tick-tick sounding like a steady, immortal heartbeat.
