Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East Wing
The guest suite in the east wing was larger than Alice's entire basement apartment in downtown Providence. High ceilings, antique mahogany furniture, and a massive velvet-curtained window overlooking the churning gray expanse of the Atlantic Ocean created an atmosphere of oppressive luxury.
Alice couldn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of the oversized bed, staring at her hands. They were scrubbed clean of blood, but she could still feel the phantom heat of Nero’s breath against her palm.
Why had the mastiff trusted her instantly, while growling at Dr. Voss?
She replayed the events in the great hall. Nero hadn't just reacted to the noise or the blood; he had reacted with calculated discrimination. He had allowed the paramedics to approach only after she signaled submission, but he had drawn a hard, lethal line the moment Dr. Voss moved toward Stefano.
A soft scratch sounded at the heavy oak door.
Alice stood up cautiously and turned the brass handle.
Nero stood in the dimly lit hallway. He wasn't panting. His dark eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling, almost human intelligence. In his jaws, he carried something small and damp—a scorched leather notepad that must have fallen from Stefano's coat pocket during the scuffle.
He dropped it quietly at her feet, turned around, and trotted three paces down the hall before stopping to look back over his shoulder, as if waiting for her to follow.
Alice frowned, picked up the notepad, and stepped out into the corridor.
The mansion was dead silent at 3:15 A.M., save for the distant, rhythmic pounding of the surf against the cliffside rocks below. Nero led her silently down the long, carpeted corridor of the east wing, past a row of ancestral portraits whose dark eyes seemed to follow them through the shadows.
They stopped in front of a heavy, unassuming door at the very end of the hall—a door fitted with a heavy digital keypad and a physical deadbolt.
Nero sat down squarely in front of it, letting out a low, questioning huff.
Alice stepped closer. The door was slightly ajar, the deadbolt thrown back. A thin sliver of pale light spilled out onto the dark rug.
Pushing the door open with her fingertips, Alice stepped into a room that looked less like a guest suite and more like a high-security communications hub. Computer monitors lined the walls, displaying encrypted financial ledgers, security camera feeds of the entire perimeter, and intercepted communications logs.
In the center of the room sat a massive oak desk. And leaning against it, examining a digital tablet, was a man Alice recognized instantly.
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It wasn't Danny Falcone.
It was Dr. Leonard Voss.
