Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of a Breach
The foyer of the Gallo estate smelled of rain, expensive cedar, and absolute stillness. Dominic’s boots made no sound against the imported marble as he swept his weapon across the curved staircase, his eyes darting toward the recessed alcoves where ornamental statues usually cast quiet shadows.
Everything seemed frozen in a terrifying vacuum. The frantic screams Beatrice had described over the telephone had vanished, replaced by an eerie, deadened quiet that felt more ominous than gunfire.
Dominic moved toward the drawing room, his heart hammering against his ribs with a violence he hadn't experienced since his early days on the streets. Every instinct honed by a decade in the underworld screamed that he was walking into a calculated trap. Vivian did not make mistakes. If she had breached the estate's high-grade biometric security, she had planned it for months.
He reached the heavy double pocket doors of the drawing room. They were slightly ajar, casting a narrow sliver of yellow light across the dark hallway floor.
He raised his weapon, kicked the left door wide open with his boot, and stepped across the threshold, ready to unleash absolute hell.
What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
The room, usually curated with antique furniture and delicate Persian rugs, was in a state of chaotic upheaval. An heirloom mahogany side table lay on its side, its surface split down the center. Shards of crystal from a shattered decanter glittered across the floor like frozen tears.
Yet, none of that mattered.
In the center of the room, kneeling on the expensive wool carpet with her hands pinned behind her back, was Vivian.
Her expensive designer suit was torn at the shoulder, mud stained her Italian leather heels, and blood trickled from a jagged cut across her lower lip. Standing over her, holding a heavy silver-plated fireplace poker with the relaxed, effortless poise of someone inspecting a weed in a garden, was Nora.
Dominic’s weapon lowered an inch. Then another.
Nora wore her favorite oversized cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dark hair, usually tied back neatly, fell in loose, damp waves around her face. She looked down at the bleeding, terrified heiress of the West Side Syndicate with an expression not of panic, but of mild, profound annoyance—as if Vivian were nothing more than an exceptionally rude solicitor who had tracked mud onto the foyer rug.
“Nora?” Dominic breathed, the word slipping out before he could catch it.
May you like
Nora glanced up, blinking as the light from the hallway caught her eyes. A faint smudge of soot marked her left cheekbone.
“Oh, Dom,” Nora sighed, adjusting her grip on the heavy poker. “You’re home early. Good. This one tracked mud all the way through the conservatory and threw a very expensive vase at my head. I think she broke a rib when I dropped her, but she’s being exceptionally loud about it.”
