Chapter 4 - Silent Frequencies
Clare walked slowly toward the brass vent. The sound wasn't coming from inside the room; it was echoing up from the central air shaft that connected the master study to the lower security offices in the basement.
She heard voices.
The audio was faint, distorted by the metallic echo of the ductwork, but clear enough for her to distinguish two distinct speakers.
“…he took the bait,” a man’s voice said. It was not Marco. It was younger, sharper, with a distinct Chicago accent.
“Is Bellini in position?” another voice asked over what sounded like a secure radio channel.
“Yeah. He’s driving the lead car. The moment they cross the bridge on 95th, the signal drops out. Genovese’s crew will take care of the rest.”
Clare pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Her breath hitched in her throat.
It was a trap.
Dante hadn't received a call from Genovese. Or if he had, it was a setup orchestrated to lure him off the fortified grounds of the estate into an ambush on the lonely industrial roads near the lake. And Marco wasn't just the mole—he was leading Dante directly into the crosshairs.
She looked around the vast study. The landlines were down. The security protocol Dante had ordered meant all external communications from the estate were jammed by the localized pulse unit the technicians had set up in the main courtyard—a unit controlled entirely from the security office in the basement.
She couldn't call Dante’s cell phone. The signal wouldn't get past the gate.
“Lily,” Clare whispered to herself, absolute terror gripping her chest.
If Dante died tonight, the estate would fall under Marco’s immediate control. Anyone who knew about the altered ledgers, anyone who had seen the paper trails—anyone like a widowed housekeeper and her daughter—would become loose ends to be swept away.
Nero nudged her hand, his cool nose pressing into her palm. He gave a low, questioning huff.
“Come on, boy,” Clare whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “We have to turn off the jammer.”
She quietly unlatched the heavy mahogany door of the study and slipped into the corridor. The mansion was eerily still. The grand chandeliers were unlit, casting long, skeleton-like shadows across the oil paintings lining the halls.
She navigated toward the rear service stairs—the narrow, iron-runged staircase used by the domestic crew that bypassed the main living areas entirely. She kept one hand on Nero’s thick neck, using his acute senses as her advance radar.
At the landing of the basement level, Nero suddenly stopped. His muscle mass flexed beneath his skin, and his upper lip curled back slightly, exposing his pale gums and sharp white teeth.
Clare peeked around the concrete corner.
The door to the primary security hub was slightly ajar. Yellow light spilled out onto the damp concrete floor. Inside, a young man in a dark tactical polo shirt sat in front of a wall of monitoring screens. It was Tommy, one of Marco’s nephew’s recruits who had joined the estate’s guard detail six months ago.
On the main monitor screen, Clare could see the GPS tracking dot of Dante’s Suburban moving steadily down the interstate toward the industrial district.
Tommy was holding a encrypted satellite phone.
“They’re five minutes from the turn-off,” Tommy was saying into the receiver. “Make sure the hit team hits the second car first. We need Dante out of the picture before the police scanners pick up the commotion.”
Clare’s pulse hammered in her ears like a war drum. She had no weapon. She was a housekeeper, armed only with her knowledge of the house’s hidden layouts and a heavy, loyal dog.
She looked down at Nero.
May you like
“Nero,” she whispered, leaning down until her breath brushed his velvet-soft ear. “Fetch.”
She pointed directly into the open doorway of the security room.
