Chapter 4 - The Weapon in the KitchenClaire’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her hands didn't shake. Years of dodging chaos had taught her one vital truth: panic is just an invitation to lose.
She didn't scream. She didn't drop her glass.
Instead, she shifted her weight, caught the edge of the heavy silver tray resting on the nearby side table with her heel, and kicked it backward with surgical precision.
Clang!
The tray crashed into the shins of the guard holding the gun. As the man hissed in surprise and stumbled forward, Claire pivoted, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it downward, leveraging his own momentum against him until the weapon clattered harmlessly onto the Persian rug.
Dante spun around from the safe, a secondary pistol already half-drawn from his holster.
He froze.
The guard was on one knee, gasping for breath, while Claire stood over him, holding his collar with one hand and dusting off her blouse with the other.
Dante slowly lowered his gun. His eyes flicked from the disarmed guard to Claire’s calm, furious face.
"Where did you learn that?" Dante asked, his voice dangerously low.
"Waitressing in Hartford," Claire panted slightly, releasing the guard’s collar and stepping back. "You deal with enough Friday-night brawls over tab disputes, you pick up a few party tricks. Now, are you going to shoot me, Mr. Rinaldi, or are you going to explain why your private security detail creeps up on people in the dark?"
Dante stared at her for a long, agonizing beat. Then, a low, humorless sound escaped his throat. He motioned for the guard to leave.
The man scrambled up and vanished into the shadows without a word.
Dante closed the safe door, locked it with a sharp click, and turned to face her.
"You aren't just a broke single mom from Connecticut, are you, Claire?"
"I am," she said, her voice trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was fading. "And I have an eleven-year-old daughter waiting for me to survive this week. If you want me gone, fire me. But don't ever sneak up on me with a loaded gun again."
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Dante stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she could smell the expensive cedar and danger clinging to his skin.
"I don't fire people, Claire," he whispered, his gaze burning into hers. "I bury them. But you... you might just be the armor my sons never knew they needed."
