Chapter 11 - The Shadow at the WindowThe stone walls of the Moretti compound were built to withstand artillery fire, but they couldn't keep out the ghosts of the past.
It was past midnight. The estate was wrapped in a suffocating hush, broken only by the low hum of the HVAC system and the distant crash of the East River against the sea wall. Clara lay awake in the master suite’s adjoining guest room, staring up at the plaster ceiling. On her finger, the heavy diamond ring Rico had slipped on her at Il Destino felt both like a symbol of triumph and a brand of ownership.
She wasn't a waitress anymore. She was the anchor of the most feared mafia family in New York.
A soft click echoed down the hallway.
Clara froze, her senses instantly sharpening. In the three months since the Maroni ambush, she had learned to read the subtle sounds of the fortress. Footsteps on the imported Persian rugs usually sounded muffled, but these were cautious, deliberate, and dragging slightly—as if the person was trying to hide an injury.
Throwing off the duvet, Clara slipped out of bed. She grabbed a heavy, brass-based reading lamp from the nightstand, her knuckles white around the metal neck.
She cracked her door open an inch.
The hallway was washed in the amber glow of the emergency floor lights. Standing outside Rico’s bedroom door was Dante. The head of security looked ghastly, his face pale, one arm held stiffly against his ribs where a bandage bulged beneath his black shirt. He wasn't knocking. He was fumbling with a small, specialized electronic jammer against the smart-lock keypad of Rico's door.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs. Dante?
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Before she could process the betrayal, a cold, heavy object pressed flat against the back of her neck.
"Drop the lamp, little bird," a raspy, unfamiliar voice hissed right behind her ear. "Or the big man gets a bullet through his brain, and you get to watch."
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