Chapter 4 - Tracing the Signal
The silence in the master study was absolute, save for the rhythmic clicking of a specialized electronic diagnostic laptop sitting on the mahogany desk.
Maeve stood beside the desk, her fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed and precision that completely contradicted her quiet, unassuming demeanor as a maid. She wasn't just folding sheets. She had spent five years working cybersecurity contracts in Berlin before personal tragedy forced her underground.
Rory stood behind her, leaning over the chair, his massive frame casting a dark shadow over the desk. In his right hand, he held the dismantled teddy bear and the military-grade micro-transmitter.
“Can you trace it?” Rory asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm—the deadly calm before a hurricane strikes.
“The transmitter is a custom-built low-energy relay,” Maeve said without looking up, her eyes reflecting lines of raw code scrolling down the screen. “It doesn’t connect to public cell towers. It transmits via a localized encrypted frequency to a receiver within a two-mile radius.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “A two-mile radius? That means whoever is operating it is either sitting on my property or hiding right outside the gates.”
“Or,” Maeve added, pressing a final enter key, “the signal is being bounced through a secondary relay server. Look here.”
The screen shifted, displaying a high-resolution topographical map of Long Island. A pulsing red dot flashed precisely where Rory’s twelve-bedroom estate sat, but a secondary blue line traced a data stream leaving the property and looping directly across the East River into Manhattan.
“Someone isn't just listening,” Maeve said, turning her head to look up at him. “They’re recording. Every scream, every breakdown, every exhausted tear has been streamed live to an external hard drive for the past two months.”
Rory slammed his fist down onto the mahogany desk. The solid wood cracked under the impact, sending the pen holder flying.
“Who?” Rory demanded, his face darkening with a rage that could crush empires. “Give me a name, Maeve.”
“The component used to build this transmitter isn’t available on the open market,” Maeve explained, tapping the microchip with the tip of a pen. “It’s military surplus. Specifically, hardware utilized by private security contractors operating out of international shipping ports.”
Rory’s eyes narrowed. International shipping ports. His ports.
“Only three people outside of my immediate security detail had access to the private family quarters during the time that bear was delivered,” Rory said, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “Only three people knew the nursery security blind spots.”
He began ticking them off on his scarred fingers.
“First: Marcus Vance. My head of security. A man who has sworn fealty to me for fifteen years.”
“Second: Dr. Alan Grant. My corporate legal counsel, who manages all trust funds and estate logistics.”
“And third…” Rory paused, his hand dropping to his side as a cold, paralyzing realization gripped his chest. A deep, agonizing betrayal that cut far deeper than any business rival ever could.
“Third?” Maeve prompted softly.
“Susan Starks,” Rory said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. “My late wife’s sister. The woman who brought that teddy bear to my daughters on their birthday. The aunt who smiled, kissed their foreheads, and promised it would protect them from bad dreams.”
Maeve watched him closely. She saw the flicker of human pain in the hardened mafia boss’s eyes—the agonizing weight of a man realizing that the knife in his back wasn't thrown by an enemy, but held by his own blood.
“Family,” Rory muttered bitterly, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “They thought they could drive my daughters insane. They thought they could break my bloodline, prove I was an unfit father, and use a fabricated psychiatric collapse to legally strip me of my guardianship, my estate, and my empire.”
“And once you were broken,” Maeve added logically, “your shipping empire would fall into receivership. Controlled by the board of directors. Controlled by your inner circle.”
Rory straightened up. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his heavy, gold-plated satellite phone.
“Maeve,” Rory said, his voice turning to pure steel. “Pack your things. You aren't a maid anymore. You’re my new director of intelligence.”
She didn't smile. She simply closed her laptop, stood up, and looked the most dangerous man in New York straight in the eye.
May you like
“When do we strike, Mr. Starks?”
“Tonight,” Rory replied, dialing a single speed-dial number that would wake up fifty armed enforcers across three states. “We’re going to a family dinner.”
