Chapter 8
By 10:15 PM, the storm outside had escalated into a raging tempest, masking the sounds of the city beneath thunder and lashing rain. Vera paced the length of the guest suite, her bare feet silent on the thick Persian rug. Jude remained fast asleep, clutching a stuffed bear, blissfully unaware of the anxiety eating Vera alive.
Every shadow in the room felt like a threat; every creak of the mansion's ancient wood sounded like a footstep. She checked her phone for the hundredth time. No messages. No updates from Callan's men downstairs. The silence from the ground floor was beginning to feel less like security and more like a tomb.
At 10:30 PM, the lights flickered.
Vera froze, her breath catching in her throat. The golden glow of the bedside lamps dimmed, surged, and then died completely. The room was plunged into absolute darkness, save for the occasional, violent flash of lightning illuminating the rain-streaked windows.
A heavy, unnatural silence settled over the house. The low hum of the central heating had stopped. The mansion’s backup generators should have kicked in immediately, but they hadn't. That meant someone had manually disabled them.
Vera’s maternal instincts, honed over three months of protecting Jude from Simone, flared into absolute overdrive. She scrambled to the bed, shaking Jude gently.
"Jude. Sweetie, wake up," she whispered urgently, keeping her voice incredibly low.
The boy groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Mommy? It's dark."
"I know, baby. We’re going to play a game, okay? A hiding game. But you have to be perfectly quiet. Like a mouse. Not one sound."
Jude nodded sleepily, trusting her implicitly. Vera grabbed a thick blanket and pulled him out of bed. She moved toward the massive, walk-in closet at the back of the suite. It had no windows and a heavy, solid wood door. She tucked Jude into a corner behind a row of winter coats, wrapping the blanket around him.
"Stay right here. Do not come out unless it's Papa or me. Understand?" she whispered, kissing his forehead.
"Okay," Jude whispered back, wide awake now, sensing the gravity in her tone.
Vera closed the closet door softly, leaving it cracked just an inch so he wouldn't be in total darkness. She crept toward the bedroom door. She pressed her ear against the cold wood, straining to listen over the sound of the rain.
There it was. Muffled, heavy footsteps on the thick carpet of the second-floor hallway. Not the rhythmic, casual pacing of Callan’s guards. This was tactical. Calculated.
Then came a sound that made her blood turn to ice—a quiet, metallic shhhk, the unmistakable sound of a suppressor being threaded onto a gun barrel.
They had breached the second floor. Callan’s guards were either dead or compromised.
Simone, Vera thought, panic clawing at her throat. This wasn't just a hit on Callan at the sit-down. It was a coordinated strike. Elias Drake was keeping Callan busy, while Simone sent a hit squad to finish what she started—to take out the maid and the boy.
The doorknob of the bedroom rattled violently. The heavy oak chair Vera had wedged under it groaned under the pressure.
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"Open the door, little bird," a cruel, muffled voice sneered from the hallway. "Miss Drake sends her regards."
Vera backed away, her eyes desperately scanning the room for a weapon. She grabbed a heavy, solid brass lamp from the nightstand, gripping it with white-knuckled intensity. The door splintered with a deafening crash as a heavy boot kicked it. They were coming in.
