Chapter 6 - The Visitor in the Dark
The clock in the hallway struck 2:14 a.m.
Scarlet woke up with a dry throat. The radiator in her guest room was clicking rhythmically, pumping dry heat into the space. Pushing herself upright, she transferred smoothly into her wheelchair and rolled quietly toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
The mansion was pitch black, save for the pale moonlight spilling through the arched windows of the grand hallway.
As she neared the foyer, she noticed the heavy front door was unlocked—just an eighth of an inch, enough for a cold draft to snake its way inside.
Frowning, Scarlet rolled forward, intending to check the latch.
Suddenly, a massive shadow detached itself from the alcove near the staircase.
Before Scarlet could react, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her breath, and a cold, serrated blade pressed lightly against the sensitive skin of her throat.
"Don't move, sweetheart," a raspy, unfamiliar voice hissed in her ear, reeking of cheap whiskey and wet wool. "Or the cripple gets her throat opened right here on the Persian rug."
Scarlet’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Panic flared hot and sharp in her chest—the instinctive terror of a helpless victim trapped in a nightmare.
No, her inner voice screamed, flashing back to the night of the car crash, the ice, the helplessness. Not again.
The intruder—an operative from the New York Gallo syndicate who had slipped past the perimeter security while Dominic was distracted at Pier 4—grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and yanked her backward into the shadows.
"Where’s the boss's ledger?" the man snarled, pressing the blade deeper until a tiny bead of warm blood welled up on Scarlet’s neck. "Tell me where Garrison keeps his safe, or you're dead before he walks through that front door."
Scarlet couldn't breathe. Her hands gripped the rubber push rims, her fingers trembling. She was paralyzed, weak, trapped in a rolling chair with a knife at her throat.
Think, she told herself, fighting down the suffocating panic. You're a teacher from South Providence. You don't quit.
Her fingers didn't reach for her throat. Instead, they slid down the side of her wheelchair, dropping stealthily until they found the heavy, steel-plated footrest. With a sudden, explosive burst of adrenaline-fueled core strength, Scarlet threw her entire upper body backward, slamming her heavy titanium wheelchair straight into the intruder's shins.
The man let out a sharp cry of pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second as the steel footrest crushed his kneecap.
It was all the opening she needed.
Scarlet slammed her elbow backward into his ribs with every ounce of physical strength she had left, twisting her wheelchair sharply to the side. The intruder stumbled over the threshold of the rug, losing his balance on the polished hardwood.
Before he could recover, a dark, terrifying shape materialized out of the hallway shadows.
Garrison.
He didn't yell. He didn't issue a warning. He moved with the terrifying speed of a striking predator. He crossed the foyer in two strides, slammed the intruder’s head face-first into the oak wall with a sickening crack, and wrenched the knife from his hand, tossing it across the floor.
The intruder slumped unconscious onto the floor, blood pooling from a cut above his eyebrow.
Garrison stood over him for three agonizing seconds, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous rage. Then, slowly, he turned around and looked at Scarlet.
He dropped to one knee beside her wheelchair, ignoring the blood on the floor. His large, calloused hands hovered over her shoulders, trembling slightly as they checked her over.
"Did he touch you?" Garrison asked, his voice shaking with a raw, primal fury that made him sound less like a mafia boss and more like a man whose soul had just been dragged through fire.
Scarlet touched her neck, feeling the warm drop of blood on her fingertip. She looked down at Garrison—at the man who terrified half of New England—and saw the naked, unfiltered terror in his eyes.
"I'm fine," Scarlet whispered, her voice steady, though her hands trembled. "I told you... I know how to handle myself."
Garrison exhaled a long, shuddering breath. He reached out, his warm thumb gently wiping the drop of blood from her neck, his touch so tender it contrasted violently with the unconscious mobster bleeding three feet away.
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"You shouldn't have to," Garrison whispered hoarsely.
"Well," Scarlet said, a faint, defiant ghost of a smile touching her lips, "nobody else was answering the door."
