Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Estate
By midnight, the heavy rain had returned, slicking the slate roofs of the Moretti manor.
Emma sat in her new room on the third floor. It was four times larger than her old quarters in the basement servants' wing, featuring a plush king-sized bed, marble fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear gardens.
Brutus was sprawled across the thick Persian rug near the hearth, snoring softly as the fire crackled.
Emma sat at the small writing desk, examining a physical schematic of the mansion’s ground floor that she had drawn from memory. Her father had taught her that every fortress had a blind spot—not in its walls, but in the habits of the people inside it.
Suddenly, Brutus’s snoring stopped.
The massive dog’s ears snapped upright. He lifted his head silently, his body tensing into an iron spring. He didn't bark. A properly trained military dog never barked to alert a threat; he alerted silently.
Emma immediately turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into darkness lit only by the faint glow of the fireplace. She slid quietly off her chair, crouching behind the heavy mahogany wardrobe.
Outside in the carpeted hallway, the faint, nearly imperceptible sound of a brass doorknob turning echoed through the silence.
The heavy oak door slipped open two inches.
A dark figure clad in black tactical gear slipped inside, holding a silenced pistol. The intruder took one slow step toward the bed, raising the weapon toward the shape beneath the blankets.
He never got the chance to pull the trigger.
Brutus hit the intruder from the shadow of the doorway like a 130-pound cannonball. The dog’s jaws clamped onto the intruder’s right forearm with bone-crushing force.
The man let out a muffled scream of agony as he crashed to the hardwood floor, his silenced pistol flying out of his hand and skittering across the room.
Emma instantly darted out from behind the wardrobe, grabbing the dropped pistol from the floor. She racked the slide and aimed it squarely at the intruder’s chest.
“Don't move,” she commanded, her voice ice-cold. “Brutus, hold!”
Brutus didn't tear the man’s arm off, but he kept his massive fangs locked deep into the Kevlar sleeve, pressing the intruder’s body flat against the floor, a guttural rumble shaking his massive chest.
The bedroom door slammed open, and bright light flooded the room.
Roman stood in the doorway, wearing a black silk robe over dark trousers, holding a heavy chrome revolver. Behind him were three guards, weapons drawn.
Roman’s eyes swept the room—taking in the disarmed intruder pinned under Brutus, and Emma standing tall in the shadows with a firearm held in a flawless tactical grip.
“Unmask him,” Roman ordered grimly.
Victor stepped forward, his face pale, and yanked the black balaclava off the intruder’s head.
It was one of Victor’s senior perimeter guards—a man named Miller.
“Miller?” Victor gasped, stumbling back. “What... what are you doing?!”
“Check his pockets,” Emma said calmly, lowering her weapon slightly but keeping her guard up. “He didn't come here just to kill me. He came to plant something.”
Victor reluctantly reached into Miller’s tactical vest. He pulled out a small glass glass vial filled with a clear liquid, along with a stack of stolen offshore bank documents bearing Emma’s forged signature.
Roman stepped into the light, staring at the documents, then at Miller.
“A frame job,” Roman deduced instantly, his voice dripping with venom. “You kill the girl, plant the offshore documents in her room, and make it look like she was Vane’s mole who committed suicide when she was uncovered.”
Miller spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at Roman. “You’re losing your mind, Moretti! Relying on a damn maid and a dog! Gabriel Vane is going to tear your empire apart!”
Roman didn't raise his voice. He didn't shout. He simply walked over to Miller, stepped on the man’s knee until a sickening crack echoed through the room, making Miller shriek in agony.
“Take him to the basement,” Roman commanded his guards. “And do not let him die until he tells us every word Mateo spoke to him.”
As the guards dragged the groaning traitor away, Roman turned to Victor.
“Victor,” Roman said softly.
“Yes, boss?” Victor stammered, sweat breaking out across his forehead.
“You failed to vet Miller. You failed to spot the tracker on Brutus. And you almost let my new security adviser get murdered under my roof.” Roman stepped closer, his dark eyes terrifyingly calm. “If there is one more security failure on your watch, Victor, I will personally feed you to Brutus. Do you understand me?”
Victor swallowed hard, bowing his head in shame. “Yes, Mr. Moretti. Perfectly.”
“Get out.”
When the hallway cleared, Roman turned back to Emma. The cold, lethal killer vanished, replaced by an intense, protective warmth in his eyes.
He walked up to her, reaching out his large hand to gently take the heavy pistol from her small fingers. He set it on the table, then looked down at her face, checking for injuries.
“Are you hurt?” he asked softly.
“I’m fine,” Emma replied, her heart beating a little faster—not from the attack, but from the close proximity of the powerful man standing before her. “Brutus caught him before he reached the bed.”
Roman looked down at the Cane Corso, who was currently sitting at Emma’s feet, panting happily and looking up at them both.
Roman slowly lowered his huge frame, kneeling down on one knee in front of the dog. He reached out his hand—not abruptly, but slowly.
Brutus watched Roman’s hand. Then, with a soft whimper, the massive dog leaned forward and pressed his broad forehead against Roman’s palm.
May you like
Roman closed his eyes for a brief second, his fingers burying into Brutus’s thick dark coat. “Thank you, buddy,” Roman whispered rough in his throat. “Thank you for protecting her.”
When Roman stood up, he looked deeply into Emma’s gray eyes. “Tomorrow, we feed Mateo false information. And we drag Gabriel Vane into the open once and for all.”
