Chapter 2 - The Voss Estate
The drive through Chicago in the dead of night was silent.
Pamela sat in the leather back seat of the suburban, watching the amber glow of streetlights sweep across her lap. Beside her, Donovan said nothing, staring out the front windshield. The city fell away, replacing neon signs and pavement with massive oak trees, high iron gates, and winding private roads lined with stone walls.
The SUV stopped in front of a sprawling, limestone estate that looked more like a fortress than a home. High security cameras swept back and forth above the entrance.
“In here,” Donovan said, opening her door.
Pamela stepped out into the crisp night air. She pulled her cheap cardigan tighter around herself, her boots clicking against the blue flagstone as Donovan led her through massive oak doors into a marble foyer.
A sweeping staircase curved up to the second floor. A chandelier hung overhead, shedding warm light across dark oil paintings and velvet rugs.
And standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her, was Roman Voss.
He had removed his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his wrists.
“In the study,” Roman said.
Pamela followed Donovan down a long, wood-paneled hallway into a library lined with thousands of books. A heavy mahogany desk sat near a crackling fireplace.
On the desk rested a thick manila folder labeled: ST. ANSELM MEDICAL CENTER – DEPT OF SURGICAL RECORDS.
Roman walked in behind her and closed the double doors. The heavy sound of the deadbolt sliding into place made Pamela’s pulse spike.
“Sit,” Roman commanded softly.
“I prefer to stand,” Pamela said, holding her purse in front of her like a shield.
Roman looked at her for a long second, his storm-grey eyes measuring her height, her posture, the defensive way she held herself. He didn't argue. He walked to the desk, pulled a single sheet of paper from the file, and turned it toward her.
“Fourteen months ago,” Roman said, his voice smooth and cold. “You underwent an emergency cesarean section at St. Anselm Medical Center. You were twenty-four weeks pregnant with triplets.”
Pamela’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes stung with sudden, burning heat. “I know what happened to me.”
“Do you?” Roman asked, stepping closer. “Because according to the official hospital records signed by Dr. Arthur Vance, your children died four minutes after delivery due to respiratory failure.”
“They did,” Pamela whispered, her voice cracking. “I have the death certificates.”
“Look at the signatures,” Roman said flatly.
Pamela stepped forward, her hand trembling as she picked up the paper.
It was a copy of the surgical ledger from St. Anselm on July 14th. Beneath her name was a list of three live births: two boys and a girl. Beside the notation Deceased, there was a secondary line written in red ink that had been stamped over with a corporate seal.
TRANSFER TO PRIVATE ADOPTION UNIT – ORDER #409.
Pamela’s eyes widened. She stared at the paper until the text blurred into red and black smudges.
“What... what is this?” she breathed.
“Fourteen months ago,” Roman said, his voice lowering into a dangerous, gravelly tone, “my wife, Elena, died in childbirth at the same hospital. She was six months pregnant with our triplets. She had been sick for months. When I arrived at the facility, Dr. Vance informed me that my wife was gone, but that he had saved our three children.”
Pamela looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it felt like it would break her sternum. “Your... your wife?”
“I paid five million dollars to St. Anselm’s specialized neonatal unit,” Roman said, stepping directly in front of her. “I took my children home three months later. I hired private nurses, nanny teams, medical specialists. For fourteen months, I believed those three babies carried my blood.”
He reached out and placed his fingers on the edge of the desk, leaning down until his eyes were level with hers.
“Until two hours ago,” Roman continued, “when my geneticist ran an emergency DNA comparison between myself, my late wife’s records, and the swab taken from my children tonight.”
Pamela stopped breathing. “And?”
Roman pulled a fresh white printout from his desk and slid it across the mahogany surface.
“They carry zero percent of my DNA,” Roman said. “And zero percent of Elena’s.”
Pamela stared at the bold, red text at the bottom of the lab results: 0% GENETIC MATCH - PATERNITY EXCLUDED.
“Dr. Vance didn't save my wife’s babies,” Roman said, his face turning into a mask of pure, terrifying rage. “He sold me yours.”
Pamela’s knees gave out.
She didn't fall to the floor because Roman caught her by the arms, his grip firm and steady. He lowered her into the heavy leather chair beside the desk.
Pamela buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as tears broke through fourteen months of frozen grief. The world spun around her. The empty room, the cold hospital bed, the silent crib in her apartment—it had all been a lie.
Her babies weren't dead.
They were upstairs.
They were sleeping in a castle under the guard of Chicago’s most dangerous man.
“They...” Pamela sobbed, pulling at her own hair. “They lied to me. They told me they were gone. They gave me papers...”
“Vance was running a high-end surrogate theft ring for wealthy clients who couldn't conceive,” Roman said, his voice dangerously quiet. “He targeted women with no influence, no money to fight back, no husbands to ask questions. Women like you.”
Pamela looked up through her tears, her face flushed, her mouth trembling. “Where is Dr. Vance?”
“Donovan is bringing him to my warehouse as we speak,” Roman said flatly.
Pamela stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “I want to see them.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “They are asleep.”
“I don't care!” Pamela cried, her voice echoing off the walls of the library. “I spent fourteen months believing my children were buried in a mass grave! I want to see my babies!”
May you like
Roman stared at her for three agonizing seconds. The cold, ruthless titan of the Chicago underworld looked at a heartbroken, tear-stained waitress in a stained uniform, and for the first time in his life, he yielded.
“Follow me,” Roman said.
