Exposed to the CEO Behind the Mafia Mask

Chapter 547: Chapter 143 Blood Stained Truth

Lila’s POV

The morning hours slipped away while I moved between consoling Beckett about his mother’s tragic fate and watching Daniel methodically examine each piece of evidence recovered from Tiffany’s hidden safe deposit box. Tiffany had been more than just a household staff member in the Sullivan estate—she’d been Claire’s confidante and accomplice, until her sudden death under suspicious circumstances had silenced her forever.

Before delving into the leather-bound diary that might contain the darkest secrets of our family’s past, I decided we all needed proper nourishment. I made my way to the sprawling kitchen of Beckett’s penthouse to prepare my father’s beloved comfort meal: traditional beef ragu with creamy polenta. Katarina joined me, taking charge of preparing his favorite tiramisu. We were both determined to provide some warmth and normalcy for my father during these harrowing revelations about the Sullivan family’s blood-soaked history.

”My dear daughter, your grandmother would be so proud. You’ve inherited her gift for making a meal feel like a loving embrace,” my father said with genuine warmth after we’d finished our lunch. He turned to Katarina with equal affection. ”And your tiramisu rivals anything served in the finest restaurants of Little Italy.”

Katarina glowed with pride while we shared a moment of much-needed laughter. It was a precious island of peace in the storm that had engulfed our lives since we’d begun uncovering the truth about Claire’s machinations. The tranquil atmosphere shattered when Daniel’s encrypted phone buzzed urgently. He excused himself with a terse nod, carrying his espresso cup as he stepped into the secure communication room.

The crash of shattering porcelain sent me rushing toward the sound. I found Daniel standing motionless among the broken fragments, his face ashen and his hands trembling almost imperceptibly.

”Forward me that encrypted file immediately, and contact me the moment you finish interrogating that witness,” he spoke into the phone, his voice carrying the cold authority of a man accustomed to commanding both respect and fear. The call ended with a sharp click.

When I studied his expression, I saw something I’d rarely witnessed—tears threatening to spill from the steel-gray eyes that had intimidated countless criminals. I approached carefully, placing my hand gently on his tensed forearm. He startled as if he’d forgotten anyone else existed.

”What kind of news could shake you like this?” I asked softly.

”I need some time to process this.” He started to crouch down to gather the broken ceramic, but I intercepted him.

”Leave it. I’ll handle the cleanup.” He nodded wordlessly before walking away, his usual commanding presence replaced by something far more vulnerable. Whatever intelligence he’d received had clearly struck at the very core of his composure.

After disposing of the broken cup, I noticed Beckett and Katarina had established an efficient rhythm in the kitchen—Beckett scrubbing dishes while Katarina dried and organized everything with military precision, their conversation occasionally punctuated by shared memories and gentle laughter. My father had settled into the leather armchair in the main living area, and Katarina suggested I join him for what we all knew would be a difficult conversation. I positioned myself beside him and finally opened Tiffany’s diary with trembling fingers.

Each page I turned revealed new depths of horror. The woman described in these meticulously detailed entries—who might or might not be my biological mother—was nothing short of a monster. If I’m being completely honest, my only motivation for wanting to be Claire’s daughter was the desperate desire to share the Sullivan bloodline. Without that connection to my father and Beckett, I would have felt nothing but relief at having no genetic ties to such a creature.

I reached the entry documenting the day of Beckett’s mother’s murder. Reading it made bile rise in my throat—the calculated malice, the cold satisfaction she took in orchestrating suffering was beyond human comprehension.

According to the diary, Tiffany had waited until my father departed with young Beckett for their scheduled meeting with the family’s weapons suppliers, knowing they’d be occupied until sunset. She seized this opportunity to slip a carefully measured dose of black market abortifacients into Beckett’s mother’s morning juice. She described with chilling detachment how the pregnant woman began experiencing excruciating contractions several hours after consuming the poisoned drink. Tiffany even had the callousness to complain about having to clean blood stains from the imported marble floors when the woman went into violent premature labor.

The diary revealed how Tiffany immediately contacted Claire, who took considerable time to arrive with her so-called medical expert. This supposed midwife looked anything but professional—she was a rough woman with prison tattoos visible on her arms, carrying a suspicious medical bag and emanating the arrogance of someone who believed herself untouchable. She commandeered the master bedroom and ordered Tiffany to remain outside. Tiffany documented how the screams grew increasingly desperate and primal until, after a final, soul-piercing cry, she heard a baby’s brief wail that was quickly silenced.

After considerable time had passed, the fake midwife emerged with blood-stained hands, coldly instructed Tiffany to allow the woman to rest peacefully, and departed without another word. Tiffany, showing no concern for checking on them until my father’s imminent return forced her hand, eventually entered the bedroom. She described approaching the bed where the woman appeared to be sleeping peacefully beside her newborn, but something about the infant’s bluish complexion alarmed her. Upon closer inspection, she discovered both mother and child were completely lifeless. When she pulled back the blood-soaked sheets, she found the mattress saturated with evidence of hemorrhaging.

In absolute panic, she contacted Claire, who according to Tiffany’s own written words—erupted in maniacal laughter at the news, declaring it the perfect revenge against the Sullivan family’s legitimate bloodline. Tiffany documented her desperation to flee the estate immediately, but Claire manipulated her into staying, warning that she’d be hunted down as a murderess if she attempted to run. Claire coached her on how to convince my father that the death was natural, the tragic result of unforeseen complications during childbirth.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I absorbed every horrifying detail. The level of premeditated cruelty was incomprehensible to any decent human being. I set the diary aside and looked at my father, who was absently stroking my hair while staring into the distance with haunted eyes.

”Dad?” He turned toward me with visible effort. ”Have you read through all of this?”

”It was among the most difficult experiences I’ve ever endured,” he replied, drawing a shuddering breath.

”You never suspected foul play? Wasn’t there any official investigation?” I needed to understand how such an atrocity had gone undetected for decades.

”Daughter, when I returned home and Tiffany explained that my wife had gone into unexpected labor and couldn’t reach our family physician but had contacted a midwife through underground channels, I found it unusual but not alarming. But then she delivered the news that both my wife and newborn daughter were gone.” His voice cracked with years of suppressed grief. ”My entire world disintegrated. Your brother Beckett was devastated beyond consolation, and suddenly he was all I had left in this world.”

”I cannot imagine surviving such devastating loss,” I whispered.

”I consulted with our family doctor, a trusted ally who’d served the Sullivan organization for decades, and requested his professional examination of everything. I wanted to avoid an official autopsy because I couldn’t bear the thought of desecrating the body of the woman I’d cherished above all else. The doctor concluded it was death from natural hemorrhaging that could have occurred after the midwife’s departure. He determined the baby had suffered sudden infant death syndrome, which unfortunately isn’t uncommon in premature births,” my father explained with visible pain. ”I attempted to locate this mysterious midwife, but nobody in our network had any knowledge of her identity, and Tiffany herself was found dead shortly after.”

”I keep questioning whether there are any limits to human cruelty. Daniel always says there aren’t any boundaries,” I said, still reeling from everything I’d discovered.

”I completely agree with his assessment. But I’ve spent years drowning in self-blame. My first wife had significant challenges conceiving children. We had Beckett through what seemed like divine intervention, but we always dreamed of expanding our family. When Beckett was still a child, we seriously pursued that dream. She sought treatment from specialists and began extensive medical intervention. She had some condition affecting her reproductive system—what was the specific terminology?” My father frowned, struggling to recall the medical details.

”Polycystic ovary syndrome?” I suggested, my pulse suddenly accelerating.

”Precisely. She underwent months of treatment and successfully became pregnant. Learning we were expecting a daughter filled us with indescribable joy. But I couldn’t understand why she was experiencing such severe complications when her pregnancy with Beckett had proceeded smoothly. After everything happened, I blamed myself for pushing for a second child. Now I finally understand what truly occurred, but I still carry guilt for ever becoming entangled with Claire.” His voice was heavy with decades of undeserved self-recrimination.

”None of this was your responsibility,” I said, embracing him tightly.

My mind was racing with implications. When I’d been diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome, my doctor had specifically asked about family medical history, explaining the condition often had genetic components. I hadn’t been able to provide any relevant information then. Now, discovering that Beckett’s mother had battled the identical condition, combined with my apparent physical resemblance to her—it seemed far too significant to be mere coincidence. I needed definitive answers, and I needed them soon.