Chapter 7 - Shadows in the GardenThe embrace was interrupted by a sharp, electronic chime echoing through the study.
Griffin pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against mine for a brief second before stepping away, his expression instantly hardening back into the calculated syndicate boss. He reached for a sleek master tablet resting on the desk, tapping the screen to bring up the estate's perimeter security feed.
A multi-split camera grid flickered to life.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping closer, wrapping my arms around myself as a sudden chill settled in the room.
“Movement on the western gate,” Griffin muttered, his thumb zooming in on one of the infrared cameras.
On the screen, a figure clad in dark tactical gear slipped silently past the wrought-iron security perimeter, melting into the shadows of the manicured rose garden. A second later, a second figure appeared, moving with military precision toward the back terrace doors.
“Julian’s men?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat.
“No,” Griffin said, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the posture and gear of the intruders on the screen. “Julian is locked in a federal holding cell by now, and his crew doesn't move with that kind of discipline. That’s elite tier. That’s Chicago.”
“Chicago?”
“The board of directors,” Griffin said grimly, setting the tablet down with a sharp click. He walked over to a concealed wall panel behind a bookshelf, punched a digital code, and slid open a heavy steel compartment. Inside rested a sleek black tactical rifle and a customized sidearm holster.
Panic threatened to drown me. “Griffin, Rosie is upstairs sleeping in a room with floor-to-ceiling windows!”
“Miller!” Griffin shouted into his comm-link earpiece. “Code Red. Western perimeter, two uninvited guests. Secure the second-floor nursery immediately. Do not let anyone near my daughter.”
“Copy that, boss,” Miller’s voice crackled back through the static. “Moving now.”
Griffin turned back to me, grabbing a Kevlar vest from the rack and pulling it over his white shirt.
“You’re staying right here in this study,” Griffin commanded, his tone leaving zero room for argument. “The room has reinforced steel shutters. I’m going to lock the internal deadbolts. If you hear anything—anything at all—you do not open this door unless you hear my voice giving the passcode Birchwood.”
“I’m not hiding while you go out there alone!” I protested, my nurse's adrenaline kicking in.
“Ren, listen to me!” Griffin grabbed both my shoulders, his dark eyes burning with fierce determination. “My entire life is right behind this door and upstairs in that nursery. I did not spend seven years surviving hell just to let some corporate hitmen touch my family. Stay. Here.”
Before I could argue further, he kissed the top of my head, grabbed his sidearm, and slipped out through a private side exit leading directly to the gardens, locking the heavy steel door behind him.
I stood alone in the dimly lit study, the silence broken only by the faint, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Then, the lights in the entire mansion flickered and died.
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Emergency backup generators kicked in a second later, bathing the room in a dull, eerie red glow.
And right outside the massive French windows of the study, a pair of boots crunched softly on the gravel terrace.
