Chapter 3 - The Clock Strikes Twelve
The clock in the main foyer struck eleven-thirty.
I sat on the floor of the third-floor linen closet, my knees pulled up to my chin, staring at the tiny silver key tucked inside the lining of my shoe.
The house was dead quiet.
The night shift guards were stationed downstairs in the courtyard, their voices muffled by the heavy stone walls. Dante had sent the house staff to their quarters on the ground floor at ten o'clock, claiming his brother needed absolute rest.
He was clearing the floor. Preparing the crime scene.
My mind was a chaotic storm of horror and survival. Part of me wanted to crawl out the second-story bathroom window, drop into the bushes, and run until my lungs burst. But I knew Gabriel was right. I had seen the way Dante looked at me in the hallway. He didn't fire people who knew his secrets; he buried them.
I checked my watch. 11:45 PM.
I slipped out of the linen closet on bare feet, holding my breath with every step. The plush velvet runners in the hallway absorbed the sound of my movement as I slid toward the study at the end of the east wing.
The study door was unlocked.
I stepped inside, closing the door until only a sliver of light from the moon filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room smelled like leather, bourbon, and old paper. I crept toward the massive oak bookshelf on the north wall, searching for the hidden seam Gabriel had described.
My fingers found the carved wooden rose on the third shelf. I pressed it.
With a soft, mechanical click, a panel behind the books slid back three inches, revealing a dark steel keypad with a small silver keyhole beneath it.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely align the silver key.
I shoved it into the lock and turned it to the right.
Clack.
The steel door swung open. Inside sat three heavy black handguns, boxes of ammunition, and a thick leather ledger bound with brass corners.
I didn't care about the ledger. I reached in and grabbed the smallest gun—a sleek, matte-black 9mm pistol. It was surprisingly heavy, cold as ice against my palm. I knew how to rack a slide; my father had kept an old revolver in his nightstand, and he’d made sure I knew how to clear a chamber before I was twelve years old.
I pulled the slide back. A shiny bronze bullet clicked into the chamber with a sharp sound that made my teeth ache.
11:55 PM.
I slid the gun into the deep front pocket of my maid's apron, wrapped my fingers around the grip, and stepped back out into the dark corridor.
I tiptoed toward Gabriel’s master suite, slipping behind the thick velvet curtains that hung beside the double doors.
Five minutes passed. The silence was so thick I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique longcase clock down the hall.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Then, the soft scrape of leather soles against the marble floor echoed from the stairwell.
I squeezed myself deeper into the velvet folds of the curtain, holding my breath until my lungs burned.
Dante Costa walked down the hall.
He had taken off his suit jacket. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark leather gloves on his hands. In his left hand, he carried a heavy goose-feather pillow from the guest room.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't look around. He turned the brass handle of Gabriel’s bedroom door and stepped smoothly inside, leaving the heavy oak door open two inches behind him.
May you like
I waited three seconds.
Then, I slipped out from behind the curtain, pulled the heavy black gun from my apron, and stepped into the room after him.
