Chapter 11 - Shadows in the Cradle
The winter of our fifth year in the Hudson Valley was biting, the sort of northern cold that freezes the marrow in your bones and makes the stone walls of Vance Manor sweat with condensation. Inside the nursery, however, the air was warm, scented faintly of lavender oil and the distinct, sugary warmth of children’s hair.
Chloe and Claire were sleeping in their twin oak beds, their breathing deep and rhythmic. I stood by the window, looking out over the iron gates where the security lights cut amber swathes through the falling sleet.
Elias was still downstairs in the subterranean study. I could hear the muffled, low rumble of his voice through the floorboards—the careful cadence he used when he was negotiating with European syndicates or dealing with the remnants of the Chicago families who still thought they could test his northern borders.
My fingers touched the cold glass of the windowpane. Even after five years as Ava Vance, wife to a man who owned half the port authorities and dark-market logistics between Montreal and Miami, the ghost of that night under the overpass never truly left me. It lived in the back of my throat, a metallic taste of stale snow and terror whenever the wind howled too loudly against the chimneys.
A soft click at the door made me spin around.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the dim hallway sconces. His black suit was immaculate, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders that I hadn't seen since the night Dante Moretti fell.
“Mrs. Vance,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly register so as not to wake the girls. “The boss wants you in the war room. Immediately.”
“Marcus, what is it?” My heart gave a familiar, sickening lurch. “Is it an external breach?”
“It’s not an external breach,” Marcus replied, his eyes dark and flat. “It’s something from the Rossi estate. The vault we thought was sealed five years ago... someone just tried to ping the secondary beacon from inside the city limits.”
My breath caught. The Rossi vault—the secret digital archive containing the biometric signatures of my great-grandfather’s empire—was supposed to be dormant. Victor had died in ADX Florence, and Moretti was rotting in a maximum-security medical ward.
May you like
“Who?” I whispered.
“We don’t know yet,” Marcus said, stepping aside to let me pass. “But the signal matched the frequency of your eldest daughter’s genetic profile. Someone has a sample, Ava. And they’re coming for them.”
