Chapter 4 - The Clock Strikes Twelve
The storm outside had reached its peak by midnight. Thunder rumbled across the coastal cliffs, rattling the thick glass panes of the mansion. Lightning flashed in sharp, violent bursts, illuminating the dark gardens in stark black and white.
I moved down the second-floor hallway like a shadow.
I didn't carry a flashlight. I knew every floorboard that creaked, every archway that threw a shadow, and every blind spot in my own surveillance system. I stopped outside Matteo’s bedroom door, leaning my ear against the polished mahogany frame.
Silence.
I slowly turned the heavy brass handle, pushing the door open half an inch.
The room was lit only by the soft blue glow of a nightlight plugged into the wall near the closet. Matteo was fast asleep in his specialized medical bed, his small face peaceful, his breathing steady and slow.
Clara was not sitting in the armchair beside him.
She was standing near the far corner of the room, positioned beside the heavy wooden clock on the bookshelf—the clock that contained my invisible, offline camera.
She held a small, silver pen-shaped device in her right hand. A tiny blue LED light glinted on its side as she passed it slowly over the clock’s wooden trim.
She wasn't just aware of the camera. She was running a diagnostic sweep on it.
I pushed the door open fully and stepped into the room. The door clicked shut behind me with a heavy, metallic lock.
Clara didn't scream. She didn't drop the silver device. She froze for a fraction of a second, then calmly slid the tool into her coat pocket and turned around to face me.
"Mr. Rossi," she whispered, glancing toward the sleeping boy. "He just went to sleep. If you wake him up now, we lose everything we gained today."
"Step away from the bookshelf," I said, my voice low and lethal as I drew the Kimber .45 from beneath my coat. The suppressor attached to the barrel pointed directly at her chest.
Clara looked at the weapon, then slowly raised her gaze to my face. She didn't look terrified. She looked exhausted, like a woman who had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
"Who paid you ninety thousand dollars to enter my house, Clara?" I asked, taking two slow steps toward her. "Was it Valerie? Or was it the man who put her in the ground?"
Clara took a slow, deep breath. She didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, she carefully unbuttoned the top two buttons of her dark navy coat, reached into an internal pocket, and pulled out a small, worn velvet pouch.
"Put it on the desk," I commanded, thumbing the safety off the pistol.
She placed the velvet pouch on the edge of the mahogany desk, stepping back with her hands open and visible.
"Open it," I said.
Clara reached down and untied the silk string, tilting the pouch. A heavy, antique silver medallion slid out onto the polished wood. It was shaped like an anchor wrapped in a laurel wreath, etched with a small, stylized Latin phrase around its rim: Fidelis usque ad mortem.
Faithful unto death.
It was the crest of the Rossi family's private inner guard—a secret circle established by my grandfather fifty years ago. A circle that consisted of only three people alive today.
Myself. Dominic.
And my late father's personal physician, Dr. Julian Hayes.
May you like
I stared at the silver anchor, my brain struggling to process the connection. "Julian Hayes... was your father?"
"He was my uncle," Clara whispered, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "And fourteen months ago, three days before your car blew up, your wife didn't die in an accident, Mr. Rossi. She was murdered in a private ward at St. Jude's Hospital because she found out who inside your organization was leaking your security protocols to the Moretti family."
