My Future Father-In-Law Tried To Erase My Secret Triplets — So I Erased His Entire Empire
Part 2
Sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, holding a folded tiny t-shirt, was Heather.
The room was lit only by a star-shaped nightlight.
She whispered that they slept through the night now.
She didn’t look up, her voice trembling, but she wasn’t surprised.
She told me she knew I would come the moment she saw me in the park.
She had packed their bags, leaving them by the back door, needing just five minutes to watch them sleep before running again.
I stepped fully into the room, my towering frame casting a long shadow over the floorboards.
I asked her, my voice a lethal, vibrating baritone, if she really thought she could run from me and hide my own blood.
Heather finally looked up, tears streaming down her face, but her jaw was set with fierce, maternal defiance.
She told me they were her children, and that I had lost the right to them the night I put another woman in our bed and threw her onto the street.
I hissed that I did it to keep her alive.
I stepped closer, desperately keeping my voice down so as not to wake the boys.
I explained that the Peterson family was coming for me, and they would have tortured her to get to me.
I had broken my own soul to keep her breathing.
Heather stood up, the t-shirt falling from her lap.
She marched right up to me, tilting her head back to glare into my eyes, completely unafraid of the most dangerous man in New York.
She fiercely asked if I thought I was the only one who knew how to survive, calling me an arrogant fool for thinking I had protected her.
I frowned, taken aback by her venom, demanding to know what she was talking about.
Heather walked over to a small dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out an envelope.
She shoved it into my chest, demanding that I open it.
Inside was a photograph.
It was a picture of me fast asleep in my heavily guarded penthouse bed.
Standing next to my bed, holding a knife inches from my throat, was a man whose face was cut out of the frame.
I instantly recognized the tattoo on the man’s wrist.
It was Tyler Peterson’s top assassin.
Written on the back of the photo in jagged black marker were words that promised they could touch me whenever they wanted.
The message warned her to keep my bastards quiet or they would visit the nursery next.
My blood turned to absolute ice.
I looked up at Heather, completely horrified.
She choked out a sob, revealing she didn’t run because I broke her heart.
She had found out she was pregnant two weeks after I kicked her out, and a week later, that photo was slipped under her apartment door.
Tyler Peterson had known about the boys since before they were born.
I staggered back a step, looking at my sleeping sons.
The syndicate I had built to protect myself was a lie.
The rival family had been pulling the strings all along, using Heather’s silence as collateral.
She wept, covering her face, telling me Tyler threatened to slaughter Sam, Ben, and Max if I ever found out about them.
She had been running from the mob for three years, and today, by letting me see them, she had just signed my children’s death warrants.
I turned to the window, staring out into the dark street.
A black sedan without license plates had just rolled to a silent stop beneath the streetlamp outside.
I drew my weapon from my ribs, promising her that they had just signed their own death warrants.
The unmistakable sound of a heavy deadbolt clicking downstairs echoed through the house, leaving me to wonder if I could slaughter an entire hit squad before they reached my family?
