Chapter 3 - THE GOLDEN CAGE
The master guest wing of Blackwood Estate was bathed in the warm, golden glow of a roaring fireplace.
The air was soft, scenting of fresh linen, eucalyptus, and lavender. Three top private nurses had spent the last four hours attending to Clara, administering intravenous fluids, antibiotics, and vitamins, while Dr. Hayes monitored her vital signs on portable medical screens.
By 6:00 a.m., the deadly fever had finally broken.
Clara lay in a massive king-sized four-poster bed, wrapped in silk sheets and a heavy feather duvet. Her dark brown hair had been gently washed and brushed spread over the plush white pillows. Though still pale and slender, her breathing was steady and calm.
Beside the bed sat a small velvet armchair.
Emma was curled up inside it, fast asleep, wearing a brand-new pair of yellow flannel pajamas that Harold had ordered from a high-end children's boutique in downtown Boston. Her small hand was wrapped tightly around a plush velvet teddy bear that had been placed on her lap three hours ago.
At the foot of the bed stood Lucas.
He had removed his dark suit jacket and rolled up his crisp white shirt sleeves, revealing the dark, intricate mafia tattoos that covered his forearms. He held a silver pocket watch in his hand—the same watch he had been wearing the night he pulled Clara from the burning vehicle six years ago.
A soft groan echoed from the bed.
Clara stirred, her eyes slowly fluttering open. She blinked against the warm light of the fire, looking at the high carved ceilings, the silk draperies, and the sparkling crystal wall sconces.
She thought she was dead.
"You're safe," a deep, smooth voice spoke from the shadows near the foot of the bed.
Clara turned her head quickly, her heart catching in her chest as she saw Lucas step forward into the firelight.
She immediately reached out her hand toward the velvet chair. "Emma..."
"She’s right here," Lucas said gently, taking a step closer and pointing to the sleeping girl. "She ate three bowls of chicken soup, took a bath, and fell asleep two hours ago. She hasn't stopped holding that bear."
Clara let out a shaky breath, resting her head back against the pillows. She looked at Lucas, her blue-gray eyes filled with a mixture of overwhelming relief and deep, guarded apprehension.
"Why did you bring us here, Lucas?" she whispered, her voice still hoarse.
"Why did you run away six years ago?" Lucas countered softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Clara turned her eyes toward the crackling fire, her fingers gripping the edge of the silk blanket.
"Six years ago, I was nineteen," Clara said, her voice trembling with distant pain. "I was an orphan working as a waitress at my uncle’s diner. I didn't know who you were when you pulled me out of that car crash. I only knew you as a brave man who saved my life."
"And then you found out who I was," Lucas filled in coldly.
"No," Clara shook her head, looking back at him with tears welling in her eyes. "I found out who wanted to kill you. The morning after you left me in that safehouse in North Boston, two men broke into the building. They had silver rings on their fingers—the O'Sullivan crest. They weren't looking for you, Lucas. They were looking for me."
Lucas’s body went completely rigid. His dark eyes narrowed into slits of lethal intensity. "What did you say?"
"They had pictures of us from the diner," Clara whispered, tears spilling over her pale cheeks. "They said if I ever spoke to you again, if I ever let you know where I was, they would butcher me and anyone associated with me. They said a boss like Lucas Blackwood couldn't afford to have a weak spot."
Lucas felt as though an iron fist had gripped his heart and squeezed until it bled.
For six years, he had believed she had abandoned him out of disgust for his violent life. He had believed she had seen the blood on his hands and fled back into the safety of normal society.
He had never known she had fled to save his life—and her own.
"A few weeks later, I realized I was pregnant," Clara sobbed quietly, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Emma. "I was terrified, Lucas. I had no family, no money, and the most dangerous men in Boston were hunting for any trace of your existence. I hid. I changed my name, I moved from tenement to tenement, working under the table, doing anything to keep Emma fed and hidden."
Lucas reached out, his large, calloused hand covering her small, trembling fingers on the bedsheets.
"You were protecting her," Lucas whispered, his voice thick with unexpressed agony. "And you were protecting me."
"I failed," Clara wept, looking at him with immense guilt. "She walked straight into your house, Lucas. I was so sick... I couldn't stop her. She took my application... she wanted to help her mommy..."
"She didn't fail, Clara," Lucas said, leaning down until his eyes were inches from hers, his voice resonating with an absolute, terrifying certainty. "She brought you home. She saved both of us."
Clara looked into his dark eyes and saw something she had never seen six years ago: an absolute, unshakeable devotion that burned brighter than any mafia empire.
"The O'Sullivans are still out there, Lucas," she warned softly. "Someone tried to blow up your car last week. If they find out Emma is your daughter—"
"They won't find out," Lucas interrupted flatly. "Because before the sun sets tomorrow, I am going to erase the O'Sullivan family from the city of Boston."
Before Clara could answer, a soft knock echoed at the heavy guest room door.
Harold stepped inside, his expression extremely grave. He carried an encrypted tablet in his white-gloved hands.
"Sir," Harold whispered, leaning down beside Lucas. "Vance just finished interrogating Jimmy Malley down at the docks."
"And?" Lucas asked, his voice dropping into ice.
"Malley wasn't just collecting rent, sir," Harold revealed, showing the tablet screen to Lucas. "He was paid ten thousand dollars three days ago by an anonymous intermediary to keep Clara Carter sick and destitute. The order came directly from inside the Blackwood organizational network."
Lucas’s jaw flexed hard. The air in the room instantly turned arctic.
The traitor who had planted the bomb under his Bentley was the same person who had been actively keeping the mother of his child starving in the slums.
"Keep the guard detail doubled on this room," Lucas commanded Harold, standing up smoothly and pulling a custom dark blazer over his shoulders. "Nobody enters without my personal verbal authorization. Not even my lieutenants."
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"Understood, sir," Harold bowed.
Lucas looked down at Clara one last time, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "Rest, Clara. You are in my house now. Nothing in this world can touch you here."
