Chapter 9 - The Reckoning
Damian didn't leave quietly.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the mountain estate into deep purple shadows, the sound of gunfire suddenly shattered the peace of the valley.
Damian’s men—four hired mercenaries who had been waiting down the driveway—burst through the front entrance of the mansion, their heavy boots slamming against the marble floors.
"Find him!" Damian’s voice echoed through the lower floor. "Kill the blind man and the mute bitch! Leave no witnesses!"
Inside the master suite upstairs, Meline was frantically writing on her notepad, her hand shaking.
Dominic grabbed her wrist, stopping her pen. "No notes, Meline. Listen to me."
He walked over to a heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom. He pressed a hidden catch on the carved molding. The back wall of the wardrobe swung open with a soft metallic click, revealing a hidden armory: custom handguns, tactical gear, and a pair of night-vision headsets.
Dominic pulled a heavy 9mm pistol from the rack, checked the magazine by touch, racked the slide, and tucked it into his waistband.
"They think blindness is a handicap in the light," Dominic whispered, a dark, fierce joy illuminating his face. "They forget that in the absolute dark, I am the only one who knows how to hunt."
He walked over to the main circuit breaker panel mounted inside the secret wall. He reached out and threw the master lever.
CLACK.
The entire estate was instantly plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness. Every light, every chandelier, every emergency lamp went dead. The thick storm shutters automatically slammed shut over the windows, sealing out the moonlight.
Downstairs, screaming and cursing erupted instantly.
"What happened to the lights?!" a mercenary shouted. "Get the flashlights!"
"He cut the power!" Damian’s panicked voice bellowed. "Watch the stairs!"
Dominic took Meline’s hand. He led her swiftly, silently through the blackness—moving with the absolute, effortless grace of a man who had lived in the dark for a year. He knew every step, every doorframe, every creaking floorboard.
He guided her into the secure panic room behind the library chimney.
"Stay here," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Lock the steel bar behind me. Do not open it for anyone but me."
Meline grabbed his lapels. She pulled him down and kissed his mouth—hard, fierce, desperate—her tears wet against his cheek.
She didn't write. She didn't speak. But she pressed her thumb hard against his heart.
Dominic smiled into the dark. "I'll be right back, mia cara."
He slid out of the room, closed the steel door, and stepped into the absolute darkness of his house.
The hunt began.
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Five minutes later, the first shot echoed through the dark, followed by a wet thud. Then a second. Then screams of pure terror as Dominic Castellano moved like a spectre through the halls he owned, dropping Damian’s men one by one in the pitch black before they could even switch on their tactical lights.
He didn't need eyes. He had the sound of their breathing, the smell of their fear, and a year of bitter rage guiding his trigger finger.
