The black Maybach cruised smoothly down the interstate, heading back toward Manhattan.
Hiram had ordered C.J. to locate Alycia Gillespie's known associates within the hour. Alastair, her uncle and the lead designer roped into the salvage project, had been pulled out of the hotel lobby by two of Hiram's men and shoved into the Maybach barely thirty minutes ago.
In the back seat, Hiram Houston leaned his head against the leather headrest. His eyes were closed. His long fingers tapped a restless, rhythmic beat against the armrest.
In the passenger seat, C.J. kept glancing at the rearview mirror, watching his boss's dark mood.
Alastair sat stiffly next to Hiram. He had been dragged into the car to give a real-time update on the design project's salvage plan. The silence in the car was suffocating. Alastair was sweating through his shirt.
Desperate to break the unbearable tension, Alastair cleared his throat.
"Kids are resilient, aren't they?" Alastair chuckled nervously. "My great-nephew, Julian. After all that mess at the hotel, he was just happy to see his mom. I took a picture of him in the lounge yesterday. Looks like a little angel, doesn't he?"
Alastair pulled out his phone, opened the photo gallery, and held it out toward the back seat, hoping a cute kid picture would soften the billionaire.
Hiram didn't want to look. He was annoyed. But as he turned his head to tell Alastair to put the phone away, his eyes caught the glowing screen.
His breath stopped in his throat.
He stared at the photo. The little boy was smiling, holding a juice box. The messy black hair. The sharp, aristocratic jawline.
And those eyes. Those piercing, unnatural blue eyes.
Hiram's stomach dropped out from under him. A physical shockwave hit his chest, so hard he felt dizzy. He was looking at a ghost. He was looking at a mirror. It was exactly what he looked like when he was six years old.
C.J. turned his head to look at the phone. He gasped out loud.
"Holy shit," C.J. whispered, forgetting his professionalism. "Boss... he looks exactly like you."
Alastair froze. He looked at the photo, then looked at Hiram's face. The blood drained from Alastair's cheeks. He saw it too. The resemblance was terrifying.
The air in the Maybach turned to solid ice. The only sound was the low hum of the engine.
Hiram snatched the phone out of Alastair's hand. His knuckles turned bone-white. He used his thumb and index finger to zoom in on the boy's face.
His mind raced backward. Six years ago. The rainy night. The woman bleeding on the pavement. The woman he threw into the trunk.
Then, his mind flashed back to yesterday. The airport. Alycia Gillespie. The way she had violently thrown her body in front of the boy, hiding his face. The pure, animalistic terror in her eyes when she looked at him.
Hiram's breathing turned heavy. His jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.
He slowly lowered the phone. He turned his head and locked his eyes on Alastair. His gaze was lethal.
"What is the mother's name?" Hiram asked. His voice was a low, dangerous whisper.
Alastair pressed himself against the door, terrified. "Aly... Alycia. Alycia Gillespie."
Hiram tossed the phone onto Alastair's lap.
He leaned forward and hit the intercom button. "C.J."
"Yes, sir," C.J. answered instantly.
"I want a full background check on Alycia Gillespie. I want her medical records, her travel history, her tax returns, and the birth certificate of that child. I want every single movement she has made for the last six years on my desk in one hour."
"Understood."
"Step on it," Hiram ordered the driver.
The Maybach surged forward, the sudden acceleration pressing everyone deep into their seats.
Hiram leaned back and closed his eyes again. His heart was hammering against his ribs. The image of the little boy's face burned behind his eyelids.
