Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Maro EstateThe mansion at midnight was a fortress of shadows and suppressed secrets.
After Antoine dismissed Donovan to hunt down the mole within the shipping empire, I was escorted to a sprawling guest suite overlooking the moonlit French Quarter. The triplets had finally drifted off to sleep, their tiny breathing synchronized in the nursery next door, guarded by two armed men who looked like they’d survive a tactical strike without breaking a sweat.
I paced the Persian rug, my mind spinning. None of this made sense. I was an ordinary woman from the wrong side of town, struggling to keep the lights on. Yet here I was, trapped in the epicenter of a mafia empire because three infant children—children I had never laid eyes on before this morning—recognized me as their mother.
A soft click at the door interrupted my thoughts.
I froze. The heavy mahogany panel swung inward an inch.
"Who's there?" I whispered, backing toward the bed.
A figure slipped into the room with practiced silence. The overhead light was off, but the pale glow of the Louisiana moon cut through the sheer curtains, illuminating a familiar silver brooch pinned to a sharp black blazer.
It was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had served the Maro family for over thirty years. Her face, usually carved from granite, was pale and etched with panic.
"You need to leave, Miss Marsh," she whispered frantically, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "Before Antoine uncovers the rest of the file."
I pulled back, staring at her in disbelief. "Leave? To go where? The estate is locked down tighter than a federal penitentiary."
"Through the service elevator at the end of the east hall," she urged, her voice trembling. "Antoine thinks his enemies are outside these walls. He doesn't realize the betrayal came from the inside. The person who altered your records... the person who orchestrated the swap in the delivery room six months ago... they are still walking these halls."
My breath caught in my throat. "A swap? What are you talking about, Mrs. Gable?"
Before she could answer, a sharp metallic click echoed from the hallway outside.
Clack.
The distinct sound of a pistol slide being racked.
Mrs. Gable’s eyes widened in sheer terror. She opened her mouth to speak, but a deafening crack shattered the stillness of the night. A bullet tore through the wooden doorframe, splintering mahogany and embedding itself deep into the plaster just inches from the housekeeper’s head.
"Get down!" I screamed, tackling Mrs. Gable to the floor as a second shot punched through the glass window, raining jagged shards across the carpet.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Heavy, frantic, and closing in fast.
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Antoine’s voice boomed from the stairwell, roaring with a fury that could wake the dead.
"Dela!"
