Chapter 4 - Midnight IntruderAt 2:14 AM, Claire woke up to a faint metallic click downstairs.
In DeMarco’s Grill, closing time meant listening for the back door latch to make sure the dishwasher locked up. Claire’s instincts were razor-sharp. She slipped out of her basement-level guest quarters, pulling her oversized cardigan tight over her pajamas.
The sprawling manor was pitch black, save for the pale moonlight cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She crept up the sweeping staircase, her bare feet making zero sound on the plush Persian runner. As she reached the second-floor landing, she saw a shadow detach itself from the heavy velvet drapes near the master wing.
A man. Dressed in full tactical black, a balaclava concealing his face, holding a silenced pistol in his right hand.
He wasn't a burglar. Regular thieves didn't move with the terrifying, synchronized precision of special forces operatives.
Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Dante’s world. The enemies he had warned her about.
The intruder slipped silently toward the boys’ bedroom door.
No.
Panic evaporated, replaced by a surge of maternal fury so hot it blinded her to fear. Those three obnoxious, pancake-throwing little terrors were her responsibility now. Nobody hurt kids on her watch.
Claire spotted a heavy, solid-brass decorative umbrella stand near the top of the stairs. Without a second thought, she lunged for it, grabbed it with both hands, and hauled it across the floor as the intruder's hand touched the doorknob of the triplets' room.
"Hey! Asshole!" Claire screamed at the top of her lungs.
The intruder whipped around, pistol swinging upward.
Claire didn't aim for his head. She swung the heavy brass stand with all the pent-up rage of an evicted single mother facing an 11-dollar bank balance, smashing it directly into the man’s knee with a sickening CRACK.
The assassin let out a choked, muffled shriek, collapsing sideways against the wall just as light flooded the hallway.
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Dante Rinaldi appeared at the end of the corridor in seconds, holding a sleek Sig Sauer pistol, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a terrifying, unhinged fury.
He didn't look at the groaning assassin on the floor. He looked entirely at Claire, who was standing over the writhing man, holding the dented brass umbrella stand like a medieval club.
