Chapter 6 - The West Wing
Claire didn't hesitate. She knew that if that courier escaped the property grounds with those digital assets, Dominic’s entire organization would be dismantled within twenty-four hours by federal prosecutors or rival families—and Vanessa would walk away with forty million dollars while Dominic faced life in prison or a bullet.
She turned to Lily. “Sweetheart, stay right here on the couch. Do not open this door for anyone except your dad. Do you understand?”
Lily looked up from the cartoon, nodding earnestly. “I stay right here.”
Claire sprinted to the private office door, disengaged the internal electronic lock, and slipped out into the dimly lit hallway of the west wing.
She knew the layout of the mansion’s ground floor well; she had spent eleven months vacuuming every square inch of its Persian rugs. Instead of heading toward the front foyer where security guards were stationed, she cut through the service corridor behind the commercial kitchen, heading directly toward the rear courtyard exits.
As she reached the side door leading to the terrace, the heavy roar of a motorcycle engine echoed off the brick walls of the courtyard outside.
Claire pulled open the heavy steel service door and stepped out into the crisp night air.
Fifty yards away, near the manicured rose gardens, a black dirt bike was idling on the gravel path. The rider, wearing a matte-black helmet and a dark leather jacket, was strapping a small leather pouch onto his belt—the pouch containing the USB drive Vanessa had just handed him.
The rider revved the engine, preparing to speed across the lawn toward the low stone wall marking the southern boundary of the estate.
Claire looked around desperately for something—anything—to stop him.
Beside the service entrance sat a heavy iron utility cart used by the groundskeeping staff, loaded with sacks of coarse ice-melt salt and heavy steel garden tools.
Without thinking, Claire grabbed a heavy forty-pound bag of rock salt, hauled it onto her shoulder, and ran out onto the gravel path directly into the motorcycle’s trajectory.
The rider saw her at the last second. He swore loudly inside his helmet and swerved sharply to avoid hitting her.
As the bike leaned hard into the turn, Claire swung the forty-pound bag with all her strength, throwing it directly into the motorcycle’s front wheel spoke assembly.
The heavy bag struck the spinning wheel with massive force. The front tire locked instantly. The dirt bike flipped violently over its handlebars, throwing the rider across the gravel path and crashing heavily into a brick fountain.
The rider hit the ground hard, groaning in pain as the motorcycle lay on its side, rear wheel still spinning wildly in the air.
Claire didn't waste a second. She ran over to the dazed rider, grabbed the leather pouch from his belt, and ripped it free just as he reached out to grab her ankle.
“Get off me!” Claire shouted, kicking her foot back hard into his shoulder.
She turned and sprinted back toward the mansion terrace, clutching the leather pouch to her chest.
Suddenly, a cold voice spoke from the shadows of the arched stone doorway:
“Give me that pouch, Claire.”
Claire skidded to a halt on the wet flagstones.
Standing under the archway, holding a small silver pistol fitted with a suppressor, was Vanessa Whitmore.
Her designer dress was slightly rumpled, her diamond necklace caught the moonlight, and her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated malice.
“I really underestimated you,” Vanessa said, stepping out of the shadows, keeping the barrel of the silenced pistol pointed directly at Claire’s chest. “A pathetic little housemaid who cleans toilets for twelve dollars an hour. You just couldn't mind your own business, could you?”
Claire slowly backed up until her heels hit the edge of the stone fountain. “You tried to kill an eight-year-old girl, Vanessa.”
“I tried to clear a path,” Vanessa corrected coldly, her finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “Lily was a nuisance. Dominic was a temporary vehicle to access forty million dollars in unindexed liquid assets. Once I had the power of attorney signed under the prenuptial agreement, both of them were redundant.”
“Dominic loved you,” Claire said, trying to buy time, her eyes darting around the courtyard for any sign of security.
Vanessa let out a sharp, cruel laugh. “Dominic loved a trophy to put on his arm for corporate dinners. He didn't love me. And I certainly didn't love a glorified mobster with blood on his hands. Now, hand over the drive.”
“No,” Claire said firmly, gripping the pouch tighter.
Vanessa’s expression darkened. “I don't need you alive, Claire. A dead maid in the garden during a house lockdown will just be blamed on rival hitmen.”
She raised the suppressed pistol, aligning the sights directly between Claire’s eyes.
A quiet click echoed from the darkness behind Vanessa.
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“Put the gun down, Vanessa.”
Dominic Romano stepped out of the shadows of the side corridor. In his hand was a heavy black 1911 pistol, pointed straight at the back of Vanessa’s head.
