Betrayed By Blood: The True Heir's Revenge

I thought being rescued from the kidnapper's basement after eight years was the end of my hell, but it was just the beginning.

My father, the powerful Underboss Derek McCall, looked at my twelve-year-old face and saw only the monster who had held us captive. He was convinced I was the byproduct of his wife's assault, calling me "pollution" in his pristine bloodline.

Life at the estate was a nightmare. I was forced to scrub floors while his stepdaughter, Kylie, lived like a princess.

When I was starving, Derek caught me eating from the garbage and mocked me.

When Kylie ordered a Doberman to maul me, tearing my leg apart on the manicured lawn, he just watched and told the guards to stitch me up without anesthesia.

Yet, when he was dying from a gunshot wound and the hospital was out of blood, I was the one who stepped up.

I gave two pints of my blood to save him, hoping he would finally see me.

He didn't.

The moment he was stable, his mother kicked me out of the house, handing me over to social services like unwanted trash.

They didn't realize until the car drove away that the medical file on the table held a secret.

My blood wasn't dirty. The DNA was a 99.9% match.

I wasn't the kidnapper's child. I was his.

When they finally came begging for forgiveness years later, I didn't offer a hug.

I handed them an eviction notice.

Chapter 1

Eliza McCall POV

I realized my mother didn't love me the moment the muzzle of a suppressed rifle pressed against my forehead, and she didn't scream for my life-she screamed for the man holding the gun.

For eight years, we had rotted in a basement in Appalachia, a cage that smelled of mildew and Burt's cheap whiskey.

I thought the explosion that blew the steel door off its hinges was the end.

Dust swirled in the heavy air, choking the dim light of the single bulb swaying above us. Men in black tactical gear flooded the room, silent and lethal.

They weren't police.

Police shout warnings.

These men moved with the synchronized efficiency of reapers.

Burt, the monster who had kept us in a cage since I was four, didn't even have time to reach for his shotgun. One of the soldiers struck him with the butt of a rifle, the wet crack of bone echoing off the concrete walls.

Burt crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead. I didn't care.

I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the damp cinder blocks, clutching the silver pendant I had stolen from Burt's stash months ago. It was my only bargaining chip.

"Mama," I whispered, reaching for her hand.

She slapped it away.

It wasn't a panic reaction. It was a dismissal.

She was already scrambling to her feet, her eyes fixed on the silhouette filling the doorway.

He stepped into the room, and the atmosphere instantly shifted, sucking the oxygen from the air.

Derek McCall.

I knew his face from the crumpled newspaper clippings Burt had taunted us with. The Underboss. The Dark Prince of the McCall Crime Family.

My father.

He wore a suit that cost more than the house we were trapped in, tailored to fit broad shoulders that carried the weight of a criminal empire.

He didn't look at the blood on the floor. He didn't look at the squalor.

He only looked at her.

"Eleanora," he said. His voice was deep, a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

"Derek!"

My mother threw herself at him. She didn't look back at me. Not once.

She buried her face in his chest, sobbing, melting into him as if he were the only solid thing in the universe. He wrapped his arms around her, his expression shifting from cold granite to something possessive, something fierce.

He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent, reclaiming his property.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I was twelve years old, malnourished, wearing a stained t-shirt that was three sizes too big.

I took a step forward. "Dad?"

The word hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Derek McCall lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto mine.

I expected tears. I expected relief. I expected a father.

Instead, I saw a void.

His eyes were the color of steel, and just as hard. He looked at me with the same expression one might look at a roach crawling across a wedding cake.

Disgust. Pure, unadulterated disgust.

He pulled Eleanora tighter against him, shielding her from the sight of me.

"Get that filth out of my sight," he commanded.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.

A soldier grabbed my arm. His grip was iron.

"Wait," I gasped, the pendant digging into my palm. "I'm your-"

"You are nothing," Derek cut me off. He looked down at me, sneering. "You look just like him."

He meant Burt.

He thought I was the byproduct of his wife's rape. He thought I was the pollution in his pristine bloodline.

I wanted to scream that I had his eyes. I wanted to scream that my blood was rare, just like his.

But the soldier dragged me toward the stairs.

I looked back one last time.

Eleanora was whispering into Derek's ear, her back turned to me. She had chosen her savior. She had chosen her survival.

I was just the collateral damage of her trauma.

They shoved me into the back of a black armored SUV. The leather seats were cool and smelled of expensive cologne.

Derek and Eleanora got into the vehicle ahead of us. I sat alone, flanked by two armed guards who refused to look at me.

My stomach churned. The motion of the car, combined with the shock and years of malnutrition, was too much.

Bile rose in my throat.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, but it was useless. I vomited onto the pristine floor mat.

The SUV stopped abruptly.

The door flew open.

Derek stood there. He had walked back from the lead car. He looked at the mess, then at me.

"First you stain my wife with your existence," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Now you stain my car."

He didn't hit me. He didn't have to. The hatred in his eyes was a physical blow.

"Clean it up," he ordered the guard, not breaking eye contact with me. "And bag her head if she's going to be sick again. I won't have her stench following us home."

He slammed the door.

We arrived at the McCall Estate an hour later.

It wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

Iron gates opened to reveal a sprawling mansion that looked like it had been carved out of money and blood. The convoy stopped in the circular driveway.

The press was already there, held back by a perimeter of guards.

Derek stepped out, helping Eleanora. She looked fragile, beautiful, tragic. The perfect victim.

He was the stoic protector.

Cameras flashed.

I was pulled out of the second car, steered toward a side entrance away from the lights. But I saw her.

Standing on the grand steps, dressed in a pristine white dress, was a girl my age.

Kylie.

I knew who she was. The stepdaughter. The replacement.

She had blonde curls and cheeks flushed with health. She held a leash attached to a massive Doberman.

She watched me being dragged toward the servants' entrance.

She didn't look confused. She looked territorial.

She smiled.

It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of a predator who realized the new arrival was wounded prey.

An older woman stood by the door. Dionne McCall. The Matriarch. She wore diamonds that cost more than my life.

She looked at me, then at the head of security.

"The girl does not enter the main house," she said. Her voice was dry, like dead leaves scraping pavement.

"Where do we put her, Ma'am?"

Dionne turned away, checking her manicure.

"The servant's quarters in the basement. Scrub her down. Burn those rags."

She paused, looking at the main entrance where Derek was kissing Eleanora's forehead for the cameras.

"We have a reputation to maintain," Dionne said. "We can't have the world seeing the pollution."

The heavy oak door slammed in my face.

I was home.

And I had never been more alone.