Chapter 4 - Shadows in the LibraryDownstairs, the sprawling ground floor of the mansion was cast in deep, ghostly shadows.
Killian moved through the dark corridors with the silent, fluid grace of a ghost. He didn't turn on the overhead lights; he knew every floorboard, every draft, and every shadow of the house he had inherited and fortified.
He bypassed the grand foyer and headed straight for the east wing—toward the sprawling, two-story private library where Richard Vance had spent countless hours reviewing corporate filings and estate audits over the past six months.
The heavy mahogany doors of the library were closed.
Killian approached without a sound. He pressed his ear against the wood.
Faint rustling. The muffled click of a brass drawer sliding open. The distinct, metallic scrape of a lock being picked.
Someone was inside.
Killian’s hand slipped inside his wool overcoat, his fingers closing around the cold, checkered grip of a custom SIG Sauer P226. He didn't hesitate. With a sudden, explosive motion, he threw the heavy door wide open and flicked the wall switch.
Floodlights embedded in the oak bookshelves snapped on, blindingly bright.
Standing by the antique mahogany writing desk was a man in a tailored dark suit, holding a small leather-bound notebook in his gloved hands.
It wasn't Richard Vance. It was Marcus Vance—Richard’s younger cousin and the head of security for Ashcroft Maritime’s mainland shipping terminals.
Marcus froze, the leather notebook hovering inches above the open desk drawer. For a split second, color drained entirely from his face. Then, forcing a shaky, desperate smile, he lowered his hands.
“Boss,” Marcus said, his voice tight. “I... I didn’t expect you back tonight. The security reports said you were still downtown.”
Killian didn't move. He stood in the center of the doorway, his massive frame blocking the only exit, the barrel of his pistol pointed with absolute, unshakeable steadiness straight at Marcus’s chest.
“Put the book down, Marcus,” Killian said. His voice was no louder than a whisper, yet it echoed through the vaulted library like thunder.
Marcus looked down at the small leather notebook in his hands. It was old, bound in dark green calfskin—the exact supplemental logbook Maeve Donnelly had kept hidden in the bottom of the mansion’s secure document safe.
“You shouldn't have kept her around, Killian,” Marcus muttered, his eyes darting frantically toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk. “She’s a nobody. A waitress from the restaurant district you picked up off the street. She was sticking her nose into accounts that didn't belong to her.”
“She is an employee of this house,” Killian replied, taking one slow, deliberate step into the room. “And you are a thief standing in my library with stolen property.”
“Stolen?” Marcus let out a harsh, nervous laugh. “We built this syndicate, Killian! You, my cousin Richard, and me! While you sit up here playing Lord of the Manor, we’ve been laundering the port revenues through the shell companies to keep the federal prosecutors off our backs! That little maid of yours found the transfer codes. If she handed those to the feds—or worse, to the Italian families across the river—we’re all dead!”
“She didn't hand them to anyone,” Killian said coldly. “She didn't even know what they meant. But you and Richard panicked. You tried to murder an innocent woman on her way home on Christmas Eve.”
Marcus’s hand twitched toward his holster.
It was a fatal mistake.
Before Marcus’s fingers could even brush the leather of his shoulder rig, a deafening explosion shattered the quiet of the library.
Bang.
The bullet caught Marcus cleanly in the shoulder, spinning him violently around and sending him crashing hard against the mahogany bookshelf. The leather notebook flew from his grasp, tumbling across the Persian rug and landing near Killian’s polished oxblood shoes.
Marcus slid down the shelves, clutching his bleeding shoulder, groaning in pain as he stared up at the barrel of Killian’s gun, which was now locked dead-center between his eyes.
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Killian didn't fire again. He stepped forward, kicked Marcus’s dropped pistol across the floor, and slowly crouched down to pick up the green leather notebook.
He flipped it open. On the first page, written in neat, elegant cursive, was a name: Maeve Donnelly.
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