The man who dumped a dying mother and her newborn twins behind my Chicago warehouse was supposed to have been buried eleven years ago.

His name was Adrian Vance.

My younger brother.

I stared at the photograph in my security chief’s hand, unable to move.

Adrian sat behind the wheel of a black Cadillac, his face partially illuminated by a streetlight.

Older.

Thinner.

A scar running from his left eyebrow to his jaw.

But unmistakably alive.

“That’s impossible,” I whispered.

My security chief, Marcus Bell, looked uncomfortable.

“We checked the footage three times, boss. It’s him.”

Eleven years earlier, I’d stood beside Adrian’s coffin.

I’d watched six men lower it into the ground.

I’d paid for the funeral.

And for eleven years, I’d carried the guilt of believing my enemies had killed him because of me.

Now he was alive.

And apparently responsible for abandoning a tortured woman and two newborn babies in the snow.

I turned toward the hospital bed.

The woman was staring at the photograph.

Her face had gone completely white.

“You know him,” I said.

She pulled the blanket against her chest.

“Please put that away.”

“What’s your name?”

She hesitated.

“Clara.”

“Clara what?”

“Clara Whitmore.”

I placed the photograph on the bedside table.

“Tell me what my brother did to you.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Your brother didn’t do this.”

I froze.

“What?”

“He was trying to save us.”

Marcus stepped forward.

“Then why did he leave you behind the warehouse?”

Clara’s breathing quickened.

“Because someone was following us. He said your warehouse was the only place in Chicago where they wouldn’t dare finish what they started.”

I looked at the photograph again.

“Who was following you?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know their names.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

She looked toward the nursery across the hallway.

“Those babies were born inside a place called Saint Catherine’s.”

I frowned.

“That’s a hospital?”

“No.”

Her voice dropped.

“It’s a private maternity residence outside the city. Women go there when powerful families want pregnancies kept secret.”

Something cold settled in my stomach.

Clara continued.

“They take your identification. They control your visitors. They tell you it’s for your protection.”

“And what happens after the babies are born?”

She closed her eyes.

“Sometimes the mothers leave without them.”

Marcus and I exchanged a glance.

“Are your daughters the reason they hurt you?” I asked.

Clara nodded.

“They told me I had no right to keep them.”

“Who told you?”

She opened her mouth.

Then stopped.

Her gaze had moved past my shoulder.

Toward the doorway.

Dr. Rebecca Hayes stood there holding a silver tray.

For one strange second, neither woman spoke.

Then Rebecca smiled.

“Clara. You’re awake.”

Clara grabbed my wrist so tightly her nails dug into my skin.

“Don’t let her near my babies.”

Rebecca stopped smiling.

The room became perfectly silent.

I looked from one woman to the other.

“Rebecca?”

She set the tray down.

“Elias, she’s confused. Severe trauma can cause paranoia.”

Clara began shaking her head.

“No. No, please.”

I raised one hand.

“Rebecca, step outside.”

“Elias—”

“Now.”

She hesitated.

Then walked out.

The moment the door closed, Clara started crying.

“She was there.”

“Where?”

“Saint Catherine’s.”

I felt my pulse quicken.

“Rebecca?”

Clara nodded.

“She delivered my daughters.”

I stared at the closed door.

Rebecca Hayes had been my private physician for seven years.

She had treated my injuries.

She knew my medical history.

She had unrestricted access to my home.

And now a terrified woman was telling me she’d been involved in a secret maternity operation.

I called Marcus.

“Find Rebecca. Quietly. Don’t let her leave the property.”

He hurried out.

I turned back to Clara.

“Why did they want your daughters?”

Her eyes searched mine.

Then she whispered something I wasn’t prepared to hear.

“Because of their father.”

“Who is he?”

She looked down at her hands.

“I never knew his real name.”

I waited.

“He told me he was a businessman. We met in Milwaukee. He was kind at first.”

“What did he call himself?”

“Daniel.”

I felt a strange tightening in my chest.

“Daniel what?”

“Daniel Cross.”

I didn’t recognize the name.

But Clara continued.

“He wore a silver ring with a black stone. There was a tiny crown carved into it.”

I stopped breathing.

My father had owned a ring exactly like that.

After his death, it had disappeared.

Only three men had ever been allowed to wear it.

My father.

My brother Adrian.

And me.

Before I could ask another question, my phone rang.

Marcus.

His voice was strained.

“Boss, Rebecca’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Her car is still here. Her phone is in her office. But the security cameras on the east wing were disabled.”

I stood.

“Lock down the property.”

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“We found a second medical bag in the nursery.”

I looked toward the hallway.

“What’s inside?”

Marcus hesitated.

“Two prepared birth certificates.”

My stomach dropped.

“Whose names?”

“The babies’ names are already filled in.”

“And the father?”

Silence.

Then Marcus answered.

“Elias Vance.”

I looked at Clara.

She was staring at me with genuine horror.

And suddenly I understood that whoever had arranged this nightmare wasn’t simply trying to hurt a woman and steal her children.

Someone was trying to make me their father.

But the worst part was still waiting.

Because when Marcus examined the certificates more closely, he found that both had been issued three weeks before the twins were born.

And at the bottom of each document was a signature.

My signature.

Perfectly forged.

Someone had been planning this long before Clara ever reached my warehouse.

And whoever it was had access to everything.

My home.

My doctors.

My identity.

And possibly the one secret my family had buried eleven years ago.