The Breach in the Dark

 

The brass latch jiggled against the frame with a dry, metallic rattle.

Dante didn’t flinch. He stayed crouched in front of me, pressing me flat against the plaster behind the heavy wardrobe. His pulse was slow and steady against my palm.

Outside in the hall, a man muttered, "Deadbolted from inside. Card reader is fried."

A woman’s voice answered—sharp and venomous.

"Use the torch! He keeps the master files in the wall safe! If the secondary alarm trips, we have three minutes before the precinct gets the silent feed!"

Seraphina.

Hearing her voice in Liviana’s room made my stomach twist. She sounded frantic, aggressive, completely stripped of the helpless victim act she used on Arthur.

Dante’s jaw tightened. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear.

"Stay down," he whispered, so faint it was barely a breath. "Do not move until I tell you."

He pressed a heavy, cold revolver into my hands.

"Two hands on the grip," he murmured. "If anyone comes around this wood who isn't me, pull the trigger until it clicks."

Before I could answer, he let go and melted into the shadow beside the doorframe.

A blue hiss flared beneath the bottom crack of the door. Sparks spat across the floorboards as the thermal lance chewed through the deadbolt cylinder.

Snap.

The lock sheared with a sharp crack. The steel door swung inward.

A high-lumen tactical light cut through the dark, washing across the pastel sketches on the walls and the child’s bed.

A man stepped across the threshold, leading with a suppressed submachine gun. He wore a balaclava, Kevlar, and dark utility gear. A second armed man followed close behind him.

"Clear left," the first man grunted.

Dante struck from the blind spot.

His left arm locked around the lead man's throat, while his right drove the heel of a tactical blade down into the junction between the man’s neck and collar. The shooter let out a choked gasp, dropping his weapon with a hollow clatter.

"Breach—" the second man yelled.

Dante slammed the dying man forward, using his weight to barrel into the second shooter. Both men crashed into the wooden vanity. Glass shattered across the floorboards as the antique porcelain music box exploded off the dresser.

Pfft. Pfft.

Two suppressed rounds punched through the wall inches above my head, showering my hair with plaster dust.

I crouched lower, holding the revolver with shaking hands. The room was a blur of shadows, grunts, and boots scuffling on broken glass. Then came a sickening crunch of breaking cartilage, followed by a heavy body dropping limp onto the rug.

The flashlight rolled across the floorboards, its beam landing squarely on Dante.

He stood over the fallen men, his chest heaving beneath his henley. A cut bled down his left cheek where the vanity mirror had clipped him. He kicked the loose submachine gun away, then retrieved his sidearm from his waistband.

Out in the dark hallway, high heels clicked frantically against the marble.

Seraphina was running.

Dante stepped through the doorway without looking back.

I scrambled up, the heavy revolver clutched against my chest, and followed him out into the vast, shadowed gallery.

At the far end of the hall, the amber emergency lights of Elevator Two were flashing. Seraphina stood by the control panel, furiously slapping a white plastic badge against the reader.

The terminal beeped red: ACCESS DENIED.

"Damn it!" she screamed, kicking the metal door. "Work!"

She spun around as our footsteps hit the marble.

Her face drained of color under the strobes. Her blonde hair was soaked from the storm outside, plastered against her neck, but the panic in her eyes was sharp as broken glass.

Her gaze flicked from Dante’s bloody face to me—standing behind him in his coat, holding a gun.

"Eloise?" Her mouth dropped open in disgust. "What are you doing out of bed? You look like a stray dog."

Dante raised his sidearm, leveling the barrel directly between her eyes.

Seraphina froze. The venom vanished, replaced by the rapid pant of a cornered animal.

"Dante... wait," she stammered, raising trembling hands. "They forced me! Marco Moretti had men waiting outside St. Michael's! They dragged me into an SUV! I only gave them the card because they said they’d kill me!"

She took a cautious step forward, tears welling in her eyes.

"I came back for you. That little mouse behind you is nothing. She doesn't know how to run an empire. She's a charity case my father kept in the attic. I’m the one you actually wanted."

Dante didn't lower the gun by a fraction of an inch.

"You brought three armed men into my sister's room," Dante said.

His tone wasn't loud. It had the terrible weight of a stone dropped into deep water.

"Your sister?" Seraphina blinked, baffled. "Who cares about that dead kid's bedroom?! Dante, look at me! I’m alive! We can fix this—"

"Be quiet," Dante said.

He pulled the slide back half an inch, checking the brass casing, then let it snap home with a sharp click.

Behind Seraphina, the double doors of the fire stairwell burst open.

Marcus breached the landing, flanked by four tactical guards in body armor. In two strides, two guards pinned Seraphina against the elevator wall, wrenching her arms behind her back with enough force to draw a sharp scream.

"Get off me!" she shrieked, thrashing against the Kevlar. "Dante, tell them! I’m your wife!"

"You're a trespasser," Dante said, turning his back on her.

He looked at Marcus. "Put her in the sub-level cell. Take the phone. Strip the jewelry. No water, no blankets, and no calls until Moretti's frequency opens up."

"Understood," Marcus said, signaling the guards.

"Eloise!" Seraphina screamed, her boots dragging across the marble as they hauled her toward the service lift. "Tell him to stop! You owe me! I gave you this house! You’re sleeping in my bed, you ungrateful little bitch—"

The heavy iron door of the lift banged shut, cutting off her voice.

The corridor went still. Overhead, the auxiliary generator kicked on with a low hum, shifting the lights from amber back to steady white.

Dante turned to me. He took the heavy revolver from my shaking hands, tucked it into his waistband, and brushed a fleck of white plaster dust from my temple.

"Go back to my bed," he said softly.

"No," I replied, forcing my voice to stay level. "Where are you going?"

Dante looked down at the blood on his knuckles, then toward the south windows overlooking the rainy city skyline.

"Moretti sent six men to my roof," Dante said, his voice flat and merciless. "Now I go show him what happens when someone touches my house."