Chapter 3 - The Four Angles
The third-floor private security room smelled of ozone, stale coffee, and cold leather.
Rows of high-definition monitors covered the main wall, displaying live feeds from fifty-four security cameras scattered across the three-hundred-acre estate. Infrared heat-maps of the surrounding forest flickered in shades of neon green and violent orange, showing tactical teams sweeping the perimeter with trained hunting dogs.
Harper stood in the doorway, her fingers nervously clutching the hem of her black apron. She had been allowed to wash the dust from her face, but she was still wearing her uniform. It felt like a target painted on her back.
Gabriel Romano sat in a leather swivel chair before the main console, a half-empty mug of black coffee resting beside a bank of keyboards.
He turned around as she entered.
"Am I fired?" Harper asked, her voice echoing nervously in the metallic room.
Gabriel actually looked surprised, one sharp eyebrow arching upward. "For being shot at?"
"For hitting your cousin," she clarified, taking a tentative step into the room. "Victor looked like he wanted to execute me on the lawn."
A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of Gabriel’s thin lips. "Victor is a bureaucratic turnip who believes rules govern the universe. As for Damian... he appears to have survived the trauma of a housemaid giving him a thorough slap."
"That isn't funny," Harper said, her face flushing hot. "I lost my mind. I thought..." She stopped herself, biting her lower lip. She wasn't about to explain Tyler Bennett to a mob lieutenant.
"It becomes funnier every time I watch it," Gabriel said dryly.
Harper stared at him. "Watch it?"
Gabriel gestured with his pen toward the wall of monitors. "Unfortunately for you, the kitchen camera had an excellent angle. In fact, I have four angles."
"Oh, God," Harper groaned, covering her face with both hands. "Please stop talking."
For the first time that night, Gabriel let out a soft, low laugh. But the amusement vanished from his face as quickly as it had appeared. He tapped a key on his board. "Come here, Harper. You need to see this."
Harper hesitated, then slowly walked across the room until she was standing behind Gabriel’s chair.
On the center monitor, a high-definition video of the dining room began to play. The timestamp in the corner read 20:14:02.
Harper watched herself moving quietly between guests, carrying the silver serving tray. She looked small on the screen, almost invisible against the opulent backdrop of the room—exactly as she had intended.
On the screen, the first shot shattered the glass.
The video slowed down to one-quarter speed.
"Watch the silver tray," Gabriel instructed, pointing a long finger at the screen.
Harper leaned closer, her eyes narrowing.
In the high-definition recording, as she swung the polished tray around her hip to avoid a guest's chair, a tiny, microscopic red dot flickered across its mirrored surface.
It lasted for less than a tenth of a second—a fleeting crimson reflection that bounced off the polished metal as the tray caught the light.
"What is that?" Harper whispered, her stomach plummeting.
"You already know," Gabriel said softly. "It’s a laser target designator. But not from the north ridge. The north shooter was using iron sights and a night-vision scope."
The video continued. The tiny red dot flickered off the tray, tracked across the wood-paneled wall, and finally settled on the back of Harper’s charcoal uniform.
She watched her onscreen self walking backward, completely oblivious, smiling politely at an elderly guest.
Then, the camera caught Damian.
His head snapped around. He hadn't seen the shooter on the ridge. He had seen the tiny crimson reflection bouncing off Harper’s silver tray.
His eyes tracked the light, saw the red dot landing on Harper’s back, and stood up instantly.
"Two seconds," Gabriel said, his voice solemn. "Maybe less. From the moment he saw the reflection to the moment he reached you, Damian had under two seconds to act."
Onscreen, Damian crossed the room, grabbed her wrist, and tried to yank her sideways into the empty chair—using the thick wooden back of the furniture as an emergency shield while he pulled her out of the laser's path.
Then came the slap.
In slow motion, Harper’s hand flew through the air and struck Damian’s knuckles with undeniable force.
Her resistance delayed their movement by a fraction of a second.
Damian let go, instinctively shifting his own body to cover her, and the high-caliber round smashed through the glass, obliterating the very chair he had tried to pull her behind.
Harper slowly lowered her hands, her breath catching in her throat.
"He knew," she whispered.
"The second firing position—the one on the western water tower—gave the sniper a clean angle for less than three seconds," Gabriel explained, pausing the video right as the chair exploded into splinters. "If Damian had stopped to explain the situation to you, if he had said 'Harper, look out,' you would have stood there trying to understand him. And you would have taken that round directly in the chest."
Harper stared at the frozen image of Damian standing over her, his broad shoulders blocking the trajectory of the bullet, his face twisted in desperate concentration.
A heavy wave of guilt and confusion crashed over her.
She had thought he was being an overbearing, tyrannical boss. She had let her past trauma blind her to the reality of the present, striking a man who had literally thrown his own body into the line of fire to save her life.
"Where is he?" Harper asked quietly.
Gabriel turned in his chair, looking at her with a searching, analytical gaze. "Downstairs in the war room. He’s been there for three hours."
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"Is he... is he angry with me?"
"Damian isn't angry with you, Harper," Gabriel said, leaning back and folding his hands over his knee. "He's furious with himself. Because someone managed to put a target on a person inside his house... and he doesn't know why."
