Chapter 3 - Descent into the Vault
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The basement vault of the Blackwood Mansion was not a place designed for storage; it was an underground bunker built during the prohibition era, featuring three-inch-thick steel reinforced doors, soundproof concrete walls, and a history that Chicago’s underworld whispered about in hushed, fearful tones. I stayed behind in the medical suite to watch over sleeping Ethan, but Marcus had insisted I view the security feeds from the main estate monitor in the study upstairs.
On the massive seventy-inch screen, the camera feed captured Serena Montigue being hauled down the spiral stone staircase by two armed guards. Her designer silk blouse was wrinkled, her perfect blonde hair was coming undone from its elegant updo, and her face was twisted in a mixture of righteous fury and rising hysteria.
“Get your hands off me!” Serena shrieked, stumbling as she reached the bottom of the concrete corridor. “Do you know who my father is? Arthur Montigue will have every single one of you arrested, stripped of your licenses, and thrown into a federal penitentiary before morning! Victor! VICTOR!”
The heavy steel vault door swung open with a deep, echoing groan, revealing a stark, windowless room illuminated by a single harsh overhead bulb. A single metal chair sat in the dead center of the concrete floor.
Serena was shoved roughly into the vault, stumbling forward before catching herself against the metal chair. She spun around, her eyes wide with terror as Victor Blackwood stepped into the vault behind her, his dark coat still on, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the bare concrete walls.
“Victor, this is insane!” Serena cried out, her voice cracking as she pressed her back against the chair. “You can’t lock me in a dungeon like some common criminal! It was an accident! The baby slipped! The nanny is a hysterical liar who’s trying to sabotage our engagement because she’s jealous of my position!”
Victor stopped three feet away from her. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pull a weapon. He simply reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, sleek black tablet device, tapping the screen twice before tossing it onto the metal seat of the chair in front of her.
“Watch it,” Victor said quietly.
Serena stared warily at the tablet. On the screen, a high-definition video began to play, capturing the interior of the upstairs nursery from an angle she had clearly never noticed—a wide-lens security camera I had secretly installed three months ago, wired directly into Victor’s private server with his prior authorization for child safety monitoring.
The video showed Serena standing over Ethan’s crib two weeks ago, aggressively shaking the crying infant while hissing venomous insults into his face. It cut to another clip from last month where she deliberately locked him in a dark walk-in closet for over an hour because she was hosting a brunch for Chicago socialites and didn't want any noise upstairs. And finally, it played the crystal-clear, high-definition footage of what happened just an hour ago in the grand foyer—the exact moment she gripped Ethan’s tiny wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped, and then drove her stiletto heel into my abdomen while I lay helpless on the marble.
The color drained entirely from Serena’s face. The defiant, arrogant posture collapsed instantly, leaving her trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
“V-Victor... please,” she whimpered, sliding down the metal chair until she was kneeling on the cold concrete, her manicured hands reaching out to clutch at the hem of his trousers. “I was stressed... the wedding planning, the pressure from my family... it’s all been too much... I didn't mean to break his arm, I swear to God I didn't—”
“You broke his arm because he inconvenienced you,” Victor interrupted, his voice cutting through her desperate pleas like a butcher’s knife. He crouched down until he was eye-level with her, his dark, dead eyes staring straight into her soul. “You spent twelve months pretending to be a charitable, compassionate woman, earning my trust, worming your way into my home, while torturing a defenseless infant behind my back.”
“I’m sorry! I’ll leave! You’ll never see me again!” Serena sobbed hysterically, her mascara running down her cheeks in black streaks. “Just don't do this! Please!”
Victor stood up slowly, looking down at her with absolute disgust. He tapped his lapel mic.
“Marcus. Bring in our special guest.”
The steel vault door creaked open again. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and a moment later, Arthur Montigue—wealthy banking tycoon, elite political donor, and Serena’s fiercely protective father—was shoved into the room by two guards. He looked disheveled, wearing an expensive silk bathrobe over his pajamas, his face pale with shock and indignation.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Arthur bellowed, regaining his footing and glaring at Victor. “Victor, have you lost your mind? My daughter is a Montigue! You cannot treat us like common thugs!”
Victor pointed silently down at the tablet resting on the metal chair, where the video of Serena snapping a baby’s arm looped endlessly in brutal, high-definition silence.
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Arthur stopped talking. His mouth remained open, but no words came out as his eyes scanned the screen, watching his daughter inflict unspeakable cruelty on a fourteen-month-old child.
“Your daughter,” Victor said softly, turning his icy gaze toward the elder Montigue, “tried to cripple my son. And now, Arthur, you and your banking empire are going to pay the price for raising a monster.”
