Chapter 4 - The Uncle Who Called My Baby an Asset
Detliff’s uncle was not a Bellucci.
That was worse.
Vincent Stewart had served as family counsel for thirty years.
He handled legitimate holdings, criminal disputes, political relationships, and the uncomfortable space where all three touched.
Detliff trusted him.
Not warmly.
But absolutely.
Vincent arrived at the penthouse after midnight because Detliff asked one question over the phone.
“Why are you calling Boston Powell?”
Vincent did not answer.
He came in person.
He was sixty-two, silver-haired, elegant, and calm enough to make everyone else’s anger look childish.
His gaze touched my stomach for one second.
Then he looked at Detliff.
“You should have told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That she is carrying a Stewart child.”
I felt my shoulders tighten.
Detliff said, “That does not answer my question.”
Vincent removed his gloves.
“I was containing a problem.”
“Boston?”
“Yes.”
“By paying him?”
“By controlling him.”
Detective Walsh had left an hour earlier.
We were recording nothing officially.
I wished she were still there.
Vincent noticed me watching.
“You can relax, Ms. Green.”
“No.”
Something in his expression shifted.
I continued.
“Men who tell pregnant women to relax usually want them quiet.”
Marco looked down.
Detliff almost smiled.
Vincent did not.
“He was hired initially to identify a possible leak around Detliff.”
“By you?”
“No.”
“Then by who?”
“Bellucci.”
Detliff leaned forward.
“And once you learned that?”
“I turned him.”
“You used him as a double source.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me.”
“You were compromised.”
“By what?”
Vincent looked at me.
There it was.
I laughed.
“Say it.”
“You were visiting a civilian apartment repeatedly while a rival family was looking for patterns.”
“So I was the compromise.”
“You were the vulnerability.”
Detliff stood.
The room changed.
I touched his arm before he could move.
Not to restrain him.
To remind him I was still speaking.
Vincent saw.
His eyes narrowed.
I said, “Did Boston’s information contribute to the warehouse attack?”
Vincent’s silence lasted too long.
Detliff’s voice dropped.
“Answer her.”
“Yes.”
The word broke something.
Three men had died.
Detliff looked as if he had been struck.
Vincent continued quickly.
“We fed Boston false routing data after we identified him. Bellucci changed targets. The warehouse should have been empty.”
“But it wasn’t,” Detliff said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because your operations chief changed the schedule without telling me.”
Marco swore.
Vincent looked at him.
“Three men died because two security plans collided.”
Detliff’s hands were shaking.
I had never seen that.
“Why hide it?”
“To prevent war.”
“You mean to prevent me from killing Bellucci.”
“Yes.”
Detliff laughed without humor.
“For once, you understand me.”
Vincent turned to me.
“Boston was not supposed to see you again.”
“Yet he did.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told him to confirm whether the pregnancy existed.”
Detliff moved.
This time I did not touch him.
He crossed the room and drove Vincent back against the wall with one forearm across his chest.
Marco stepped forward but did not intervene.
Vincent remained calm.
“Think.”
Detliff’s voice was low.
“You sent that man to her.”
“I sent him to observe.”
“He put his hands on her.”
“I did not order that.”
Detliff released him with visible effort.
Vincent straightened his coat.
I asked, “Why did you need confirmation?”
“Because Bellucci already suspected.”
“How?”
“The obstetric photograph.”
“Boston took it?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Vincent looked at Detliff.
“Your own security.”
Silence.
I turned.
Detliff looked confused.
“My security?”
“One of your men photographed her clinic visit for the protection file. The image was stored on a server Boston later accessed through Marrow.”
I felt sick.
Detliff had been watching me too.
Not selling me.
Protecting me, in his language.
Still watching.
“How long?” I asked.
“Nissa.”
“How long have you had people photographing me?”
“After the warehouse attack.”
“That was before I told you I was pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
The betrayal was smaller than Boston’s.
It still cut.
I picked up my coat.
Detliff moved toward me.
“Where are you going?”
“A hotel.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
He stopped himself.
Then tried again.
“Please don’t go alone.”
“I won’t. Detective Walsh can arrange protection.”
That hurt him.
Good.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because he needed to understand that protection I did not choose could still feel like a cage.
Vincent said, “This is exactly why emotion has no place in—”
Detliff turned on him.
“Leave.”
“Detliff.”
“Before I forget she asked me to become someone my daughter can watch.”
Vincent stared.
Then he left.
I packed one small bag.
Detliff followed me to the elevator but did not block it.
That was the first thing he did right that night.
Before the doors closed, he said, “I am sorry.”
I looked at him.
“For the photo?”
“For deciding you would understand later.”
The honesty stopped me.
I nodded once.
Then the doors closed.
I spent the night in a secure hotel room arranged through Detective Walsh.
At 3:14 a.m., my phone rang.
Boston.
I answered.
His voice was ragged.
“Nissa, don’t hang up.”
“Why?”
“Because I know who took the clinic photo from Stewart’s server.”
“Who?”
Boston breathed hard.
“Vincent.”
I sat up.
“He just admitted ordering you to confirm the pregnancy.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“He did not want confirmation for Stewart.”
Boston whispered the next line.
“He wanted proof he could sell.”
Before Vincent left the penthouse that night, he looked at me one last time.
“You think you are changing him.”
I felt Detliff go still beside me.
“I’m not trying to.”
Vincent gave a small smile.
“Women always say that right before men disappoint them.”
I stepped closer.
“No. I think he is responsible for changing himself.”
The smile disappeared.
That answer seemed to bother him more than an insult would have.
Because Vincent understood control.
He understood manipulation.
What he did not understand was a relationship where one adult could refuse to become another adult’s moral project.
After he left, Detliff said, “He wanted you to doubt me.”
“I already doubt you.”
He looked wounded.
“That was quick.”
“I also trust you more than I did yesterday.”
His expression shifted.
“Both?”
“Welcome to adult relationships.”
He sat down heavily.
“I preferred extortion.”
“Of course you did.”
The joke helped, but only a little.
Because the truth remained between us.
Detliff’s family did not merely create danger around him.
May you like
It taught him to mistake secrecy for protection.
If we were going to survive each other, he would have to unlearn that before our daughter learned it from him.
