Chapter 3 - The Enemy Within
The sound of Marcus’s knuckles against the heavy oak sent an electric jolt through the room. Clara pressed her back against the bookshelf, her breathing shallow and ragged. Leo climbed off the sofa and pressed himself against Dante’s thigh, burying his face in his father’s trousers.
Dante placed a massive, protective palm against the back of his son’s head. With a single gesture, he signaled Clara to stay silent.
Taking a deep, calculated breath, Dante adjusted the cuff of his shirt and walked toward the door. He didn’t unlock it immediately. He paused, staring through the narrow peephole.
Standing in the hall was Marcus Vance: impeccably groomed, wearing a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, holding a glass of club soda with lime. On his right ring finger glinted a heavy silver signet ring—the Vance family crest.
*The man with the silver ring.*
Dante felt a surge of murderous adrenaline so intense his vision tunneled. Every instinct screamed at him to tear the door open and wrap his bare hands around his cousin’s throat until the man’s eyes bulged. But business had taught Dante patience. A rash strike would scatter Marcus’s network into the shadows and put Elena in immediate, mortal danger.
Dante unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click and pulled the door open just three inches.
“What is it, Marcus?” Dante’s voice was arctic, perfectly mimicking his usual irritated, aloof demeanor.
Marcus offered a warm, rehearsed smile. “Everything all right in there, cousin? The German investors are ready to toast the endowment. Then young Leo had that sudden episode downstairs. Someone said he spoke? And that the new maid broke half a service set?” Marcus peered curiously past Dante’s shoulder. “I can have my security detail escort her off the premises if she startled Leo.”
“Leo was overwhelmed by the noise downstairs,” Dante lied smoothly, his tone dripping with dismissive arrogance. “He knocked a glass out of her hands, that’s all. As for speaking—it was wishful thinking from a senator’s wife who had too much champagne. The boy muttered a nonsense syllable.”
Marcus’s eyes flickered. A micro-expression of intense relief passed across his features before he reassembled his mask of cousinly concern. “Ah. What a shame. I truly hoped he was making progress. And the maid?”
“She’s cleaning a spill on my rug. Then she’s going back to the basement quarters,” Dante replied cold. “Go back down to the ballroom. Tell the Germans I’ll be down in ten minutes to sign the endowment papers. Do not come back up here.”
Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze probing the darkness of the study. “Of course, Dante. Don’t keep them waiting.”
Dante closed the door, locked both the primary bolt and the secondary security latch, and leaned his forehead against the wood.
The moment Marcus’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Dante spun around. His face was transformed by raw, decisive fury.
“We have less than forty-eight hours,” Dante said, walking swiftly behind his massive mahogany desk. He tapped a hidden panel beneath the edge of the wood. A biometric safe popped open with a hiss of compressed air. Inside lay two customized Glock 19 handguns, four extra magazines, an encrypted satellite phone, and the sun half of Elena’s locket.
Clara stepped forward, her eyes wide as she saw the weapons. “What are you doing?”
“Marcus thinks he controls my security grid,” Dante said, his fingers flying across the keypad of the satellite phone. “He forgets who built this empire. I established an off-grid contingency unit three years ago when the board started acting erratic. Men who don’t report to Vance Global. Former tier-one operators who report only to me.”
He brought the phone to his ear. After three rings, a harsh voice answered: *“Vance. State condition.”*
“Condition Black, Bishop,” Dante said coldly. “I need a ghost transport at the North Dock in forty minutes. Civilian disguises, zero electronic footprint. Cut the perimeter feeds on camera sector four for a twelve-second window at precisely 19:42.”
*“Understood. Transport will be waiting.”*
The call ended. Dante picked up the sun locket. He held it out to Clara.
“You said Elena is waiting outside upstate New York. Where?”
Clara pulled a small, worn leather-bound notebook from her apron pocket. “An abandoned dairy farm outside Rhinebeck. It’s registered under our grandmother’s maiden name. She doesn’t have electricity. She uses a wood-burning stove and a ham radio to listen to regional police bands. That’s how she knows Marcus’s men have been closing the perimeter. Three days ago, two unmarked black SUVs were seen idling near the crossroads. That’s why she sent me in.”
Dante looked at Leo. The little boy was staring at his father’s gun with wide, dark eyes.
Dante walked over, knelt down, and placed both hands on Leo’s small shoulders. “Leo. Look at me, buddy.”
The boy met his gaze.
“Is what you told me downstairs the absolute truth?” Dante asked, his voice softening into that of a devoted, desperate father. “Did Mommy love you before she left?”
Leo’s lower lip trembled. Two large tears spilled over his eyelashes and rolled down his cheeks. He reached out and touched the crescent locket still hanging around Clara’s neck.
“Mommy kissed my nose,” Leo said, his voice stronger now, sweet and pure. “She said, *‘The sun and moon will always find each other, Leo. Daddy will come for us when the shadows break.’*”
Dante choked back a sob that threatened to shatter his chest. He pulled his son into a fierce, crushing embrace, burying his face in the boy’s soft hair.
“Daddy is coming,” Dante whispered against his son’s neck. “I swear on my life, Leo. Daddy is bringing her home.”
He stood up, racked the slide of the Glock, and holstered it beneath his vest.
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“Clara, strip out of that uniform. There are civilian clothes in the guest wardrobe through that door. We leave through the service tunnels in nine minutes.”
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