Chapter 4 - The Guest at the Gate
The security monitors in my basement study lit up in black and white.
A sleek black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the estate’s outer iron gates. The gate camera zoomed in: Marcus Kane sat behind the wheel, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to an unheard song.
Beside me, Grace stood watching the screens. She didn't panic. She didn't cry.
"What do we do?" she asked.
"You stay upstairs with the girls," I told her, checking the magazine of my Kimber .45 and sliding it into the small of my back beneath my sweater. "Lock the nursery doors. If you hear gunfire, take the hidden staircase inside the linen closet down to the wine cellar. There is a tunnel that leads to the boathouse."
Grace grabbed my wrist. Her grip was startlingly firm.
"Don't let him see it in your eyes, Dominic," she warned, her voice steady and urgent. "Men like that smell suspicion. He thinks he’s safe. Keep him thinking he’s safe until you hold all the cards."
I looked down at her hand on my arm. For months, I had felt completely detached from humanity, a walking corpse fueled solely by vengeance and empire. But the warmth of her touch pulled me back into the living world.
"I won't," I said.
I pressed the gate release buzzer, smoothed my collar, and walked up the stairs to the grand foyer.
When Marcus stepped through the double mahogany front doors, he shook off his trench coat with an easy smile. He was tall, silver-templed, and handsome in the slick, predatory way that made city councilmen trust him.
On his wrist, catching the chandelier light, was the gold Rolex with the blue face.
"Boss!" Marcus boomed, spreading his arms. "Word came down you pulled out of Queens early. Everything okay with the union reps?"
"Handled," I said, keeping my expression flat, deadened by the exhaustion he expected to see. "Cost us twenty grand to grease the shop steward, but the crates will move."
"Good. Good." Marcus walked toward the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon without asking. He treated this house like his own. "How are the little princesses tonight? Donnelly said the trauma therapist from Manhattan visited again today."
"The therapist made no progress," I said, walking toward him slowly. "Just like yesterday. Just like last month."
Marcus took a sip, sighing with theatrical sympathy. "Breaks my heart, Dom. Truly. Isabelle was an angel. To leave those girls without a mother... it’s an unforgivable sin."
"Yes," I agreed softly, stopping three feet from him. "It is unforgivable."
Just then, the soft creak of a floorboard sounded from the landing above.
Marcus turned his head.
Sophie stood at the top of the stairs, clutching a worn teddy bear. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. She was staring down at Marcus with wide, unblinking eyes.
Marcus smiled up at her—a warm, uncle-like smile that made my stomach heave. "Hey there, little bird. Up past your bedtime, aren't you?"
Sophie didn't blink. She opened her mouth.
And clearly, loudly, across the vaulted foyer, she spoke:
"The yellow coat smelled like smoke."
May you like
Marcus froze, the bourbon glass stopping halfway to his lips.
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