Chapter 11 - The Crimson Warning
The heavy, metallic scent of fresh blood completely overwhelmed the subtle fragrance of the white lilies in my office.
I stared blindly at the horrifying, blood-soaked scalpel resting innocently inside my pristine mahogany desk drawer.
My heart hammered violently against my ribs, but my mind instantly shifted into absolute, cold-blooded survival mode.
I did not scream, I did not call for hospital security, and I did not blindly run out into the busy corridor.
I carefully pulled a pair of sterile latex gloves from my blazer pocket and slid them onto my trembling hands.
I picked up the bloody photograph by its very edges, examining the glossy paper under the bright light of my desk lamp.
The picture of Sheikh Omar Al-Rashid and me had been taken exactly three weeks ago in a highly secured, private underground parking garage.
There were only four people alive who knew that secret meeting had ever taken place.
I placed the photograph into a clear evidence bag and immediately locked my office door from the inside.
I walked over to my private bathroom and vigorously scrubbed my hands with scalding hot water, desperately trying to wash away the feeling of violation.
Someone had completely bypassed my elite, multi-million dollar security grid without triggering a single, silent alarm.
I pulled out my encrypted burner phone and dialed the direct, unlisted number of my new head of corporate security.
Marcus was gone, Grant was gone, but the shadows of Chicago were still heavily populated with terrifying ghosts.
"I need a complete, untraceable DNA analysis on a blood sample within the next twenty minutes," I ordered quietly into the phone.
I carefully walked the evidence down to the subterranean, highly classified laboratory located beneath the hospital's morgue.
My loyal technicians ran the bloody scalpel through the rapid centrifuge, their faces completely pale with unspoken terror.
When the digital results finally flashed across the glowing computer monitor, the air entirely left my burning lungs.
The blood smeared across the terrifying note did not belong to a random victim or a slaughtered guard.
It was a perfect, undeniable genetic match to Evelyn Vance, the billionaire socialite who had died saving my life in the penthouse.
Someone had actually visited the city morgue, extracted Evelyn's blood, and used it to paint a terrifying, psychotic threat on my desk.
I realized with absolute, horrifying clarity that Evelyn Vance had not died without leaving behind a deeply dangerous legacy.
She had a secret, illegitimate son who had completely vanished from the public eye over fifteen years ago.
His name was Julian Vance, and he was universally known in the darkest corners of the global underworld as a completely ruthless, ghost-like assassin.
My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket, displaying an incoming video call from Sheikh Omar Al-Rashid.
I answered the call, my face an absolute mask of perfectly crafted, corporate indifference.
"You look incredibly tense for a woman who just conquered an entire medical empire, Mara," the Sheikh noted with a smooth, mocking smile.
"I just received a very interesting gift in my office, Omar, and it directly concerns your hidden past," I replied coldly.
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The Sheikh's arrogant smile vanished instantly, completely replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic.
"If Julian Vance is alive and in Chicago, Mara, we are both already entirely dead," the royal billionaire whispered in absolute horror.
