Chapter 242

She read the text. The hack originated from a localized ghost network. The IP signatures bounce, but the device profiles are logged. Three distinct user profiles. Two are heavily modified gaming tablets. One is a child’s smartwatch, registered under the Volkov alias.

Charla’s eyes went wide.

She thought of the three plates she had noticed on the table in Brooklyn. She thought of the young boy’s voice she had heard on Hilliard’s phone that night in the penthouse. She thought of Elia’s green eyes.

“Three,” Charla whispered.

The pieces slammed together with horrible clarity. Cailin hadn’t hidden one child. She had hidden three.

And her new weapon wasn’t the secret itself. It was the context surrounding it. Not merely that the children existed — but that Cailin was turning them into her own private criminal enterprise, right under Hilliard’s nose.

“I can’t win,” Charla said to the empty room. “But I can make sure they all lose.”

She picked up the backup phone. She didn’t text Hilliard — he wouldn’t read it. She pulled up Amerigo Holloway’s private number.

Subject: Your True Legacy

Message: You know Hilliard has three children. But did he tell you that two of them are prodigy hackers who just committed multiple federal crimes to aid their mother? Hilliard knows. He’s allowing Cailin to turn your heirs into her personal army of cyber-criminals — and he’s been hiding them from you.

Sent.

Charla lay back on the floor and laughed until the laughter turned to tears. She had just lit the fuse on a nuclear bomb.

Amerigo Holloway sat in his library, the text message glowing on the screen in his hand.

He didn’t look surprised. He looked vindicated.

He had known about the triplets for weeks, ever since Hilliard’s reckless confession at dinner. But this — this was the ammunition he had been waiting for. He had suspected the children were gifted, but proof of Cailin actively deploying them in illegal activity gave him the legal leverage he needed.

He pressed a button on his desk. “Bring me the file on Cailin Morton’s network.”

Five minutes later, his head of security placed a folder in front of him.

“A property owned by Kegan, as the text suggests,” the man said. “We’ve been monitoring it. Three children are present. The boys — Aron and Davy — show exceptional digital aptitude.”

Amerigo studied the surveillance photographs. The boys looked like Hilliard. The girl had the chin.

“Hackers,” Amerigo whispered. “My blood. And she’s been using them.”

He picked up the phone. “Get Hilliard here. Now.”

Hilliard walked into the library an hour later, looking hollowed out.

“I’m busy, Grandfather. I’m liquidating English Holdings.”

“Forget the English family,” Amerigo said. He pushed the photographs across the desk.

Hilliard looked down. His breath caught. They were surveillance photos of the children at Kegan’s chalet.

“Charla’s little parting gift,” Amerigo said. “She confirmed what we already suspected — the location. The boys’ particular talents.”

“They are safe,” Hilliard said.

“Safe?” Amerigo’s cane struck the floor with a crack. “They’re being raised by a fugitive to serve as her soldiers! Three Holloway heirs living like criminals in hiding — and you knew! You knew where they were, and you left them there!”