Chapter 2 - The Threat in the Whispers
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The air in the kitchen turned into solid ice.
I looked around the sprawling manor I had spent five years fortifying—the reinforced perimeter walls, the thirty-two optical cameras, the four private security gates, the six armed bodyguards stationed on the grounds.
I had believed this estate was an impenetrable fortress built to protect my motherless daughters from the predators of New York.
In reality, I had locked them in a cage with the wolf.
“Dominic?” a deep, familiar voice called out from the corridor.
Heavy, measured footsteps approached on the marble tiles.
Marco Santoro stepped into the kitchen.
At forty-five, Marco was broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, and impeccably groomed in a tailored charcoal suit. He wore his silver-plated security director’s badge on his breast pocket, his Glock 19 holstered discreetly beneath his left arm. Marco had been my right-hand man for fifteen years. He had stood beside me during the union wars in Brooklyn; he had been the first man to arrive at the preschool after Isabelle was shot; he was the godfather who held Nora at her baptism.
The moment Marco’s shadow crossed the threshold, the silence in the room became suffocating.
Olivia backed up until her spine struck the refrigerator. Nora whimpered, burying her nose into Grace’s hip. Sophie did not blink; her small hands turned white as her fingernails dug through Grace’s apron into her skin.
Marco paused, glancing from my dropped briefcase to the frozen children, a relaxed, easy smile spreading across his face.
“Dominic, you’re back early,” Marco said warmly, stepping closer. “We were expecting you at seven. I was just reviewing the exterior sensor grid near the eastern boathouse.”
He looked down at Sophie, his smile broadening into something that had once seemed affectionate, but now looked like the grin of a gargoyle.
“What’s the matter, little bird?” Marco murmured, reaching a hand out toward Sophie’s hair. “Did your father startle you?”
Sophie flinched violently, shrinking backward behind Grace with a choked, terrified gasp.
Grace subtly shifted her weight, stepping half an inch to the left, blocking Marco’s hand from touching the child.
“The girls were just helping me prepare the afternoon dessert, Mr. Santoro,” Grace said, her tone perfectly even, polite, and neutral. “They were startled by the dropped briefcase.”
Marco’s eyes lingered on Grace for two long, calculating seconds. His smile faded into a thin, razor-sharp line.
“Of course,” Marco replied softly. “Always so diligent, Miss Bennett.”
He turned back to me. “Dominic, whenever you’re settled, we need to review the quarterly patrol manifests in your study. The Falcone family has been sniffing around the Red Hook shipping terminals again.”
I forced my facial muscles into an unreadable mask—the same cold, impenetrable expression that had kept me alive in the underworld for two decades.
“Give me ten minutes, Marco,” I said calmly. “I’m going to wash the travel dust off.”
“Take your time, Boss,” Marco nodded, turning on his heel and walking back down the hallway, his footsteps fading toward the security office.
The moment Marco was out of earshot, Sophie let out a ragged, shuddering breath.
I looked at Grace.
May you like
“Bring the girls to the second-floor nursery,” I commanded in a low, dangerous whisper. “Lock the deadbolt from the inside. Do not open that door for anyone except me.”
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