Chapter 3 - The Glint in the Dark
The storm arrived on Friday evening, bringing heavy torrents of coastal rain that slammed against the high stained-glass windows of the estate. The wind howled through the slate roof tiles, making the old mansion groan like a wooden ship at sea.
Because of the storm, the auxiliary power grid flickered twice before failing completely at 8:15 PM.
The house plunged into absolute darkness.
In the servant's wing, Mrs. Pomeroy immediately began distributing brass oil lamps and beeswax candles, her voice sharp as she directed the staff to secure the window shutters.
"Naomi," Mrs. Pomeroy called out across the kitchen. "Take two candles up to the master's private lounge. He doesn't require light to see, of course, but he dislikes the smell of the battery-operated emergency units."
"Yes, Mrs. Pomeroy," Naomi said.
She lit two thick ivory candles, placing them in heavy brass holders, and began the climb up the dark grand staircase.
Without the electric sconces, the mansion was reduced to a cavernous labyrinth of deep shadows and flickering amber light. Naomi moved carefully, her soft shoes making no sound against the thick runner rugs. She reached the third floor—a private domain where the staff rarely ventured unless specifically summoned.
The door to the master lounge was heavy oak, left slightly ajar.
Naomi approached quietly, holding the candles in front of her. She was about to knock when she heard low, intense voices coming from inside the room.
"The meeting with the Moretti syndicate is set for Tuesday," Bruno Tisaro’s voice echoed through the doorway. "If we don't settle the shipping manifest disputes by then, they're going to push into the northern docks."
Naomi stopped outside the door, pulling back into the shadows of the recess.
"Let them push," Vance’s voice replied. It was cold, calm, and utterly devoid of anxiety. "Moretti thinks he's dealing with a crippled horse. He believes that because I sit in this house with dark glass over my eyes, I cannot see his men moving assets through the perimeter."
"He has two informants inside our logistics team, Julian," Bruno spat bitterly. "I haven't been able to isolate them yet. They're careful. They don't use phones inside the estate."
"They don't need to," Vance said smoothly. "They leave physical markers in the ledger books. Bring me the physical ledgers from the south office tomorrow night. I will review them myself."
"You want me to read them to you?" Bruno asked.
A long silence followed.
"I will examine them in my own way, Bruno," Vance replied, his tone ending any further debate on the matter. "Leave me. The storm is worsening, and I want the perimeter guards doubled tonight. If Moretti sends scouts along the sea wall, sink their boats before they touch the sand."
"Understood."
Naomi heard Bruno's heavy boots turning toward the door. She instantly backed up three steps, held her candle holder straight, and lowered her eyes to the floor just as the security chief pulled the door open.
Bruno paused in the doorway, his sharp eyes locking onto Naomi. His hand rested near the bulge beneath his left armpit where his shoulder holster sat.
"What are you doing up here, Fletcher?" he demanded coldly.
"Mrs. Pomeroy sent me with candles for Mr. Vance, sir," Naomi said smoothly, her voice even, her eyes fixed on his polished boots. "Because of the power outage."
Bruno stared at her for a moment, then stepped aside. "Go on. Set them down and get out."
"Yes, sir."
Naomi stepped past Bruno into the master lounge.
The room was vast, dominated by a fireplace where low red embers were dying down. The storm outside lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, sending streaks of rainwater running down the glass like tears.
Julian Vance was standing near the window, his back turned to the room. He was still wearing his dark suit, but his dark glasses were resting on the mantelpiece beside the fireplace.
Naomi’s heart leapt into her throat.
He was standing with his face turned toward the window, looking out into the pitch-black night illuminated only by sudden flashes of distant lightning.
She stepped forward slowly, keeping her eyes strictly on the floor in front of her shoes, obeying the third rule to the letter. She reached the marble side table near the armchair and set the two candles down.
As she set the second candle down, a massive bolt of lightning split the night sky directly over the ocean.
The blinding flash of white light illuminated the entire room for a fraction of a second, reflecting sharply off the glass windowpane.
In that brief, brilliant flash of light, Naomi didn't look up at his face. But she saw his clear reflection in the dark glass of the window directly in front of her.
Julian Vance’s eyes were wide open.
They were not milky, clouded, or scarred like the eyes of a man who had been blinded by fire and shattered glass five years ago. They were a striking, piercing dark grey—sharp, focused, and tracking the movements of the rain droplets sliding down the glass.
And then, as the flash of lightning faded back into darkness, Naomi saw something that made her blood run completely cold.
In the center of his right iris, reflected perfectly in the glass, was a tiny, faint pale ring—a classic sign of recovering pupillary light reflex. But more importantly, his eyes were moving with absolute, coordinated purpose. He was reading a piece of paper held in his left hand, holding it precisely at the distance a man with normal vision would use.
As the room fell back into amber candle light, Vance’s head snapped toward her reflection.
May you like
Through the reflection in the window, his gaze locked directly onto hers.
Naomi gasped softly, her eyes freezing. For two agonizing seconds, through the dark mirror of the rain-slicked window, the maid and the blind mafia boss stared directly into each other's eyes.
