Chapter 6 - The Shadow on the Lake
The afternoon faded into a long, quiet evening.
The Lake Michigan shoreline was dark, the water black as ink under the heavy winter sky. Beatrice stood by the bay window of her room, her eyes scanning the long, winding driveway that led to the mansion’s iron gates.
It was past seven. Leo had been gone for four hours, and there had been no word from Mateo.
The silence of the house felt different tonight. It wasn't the peaceful, luxurious quiet she had grown to appreciate during her first day on the second floor. It was a heavy, expectant silence, the kind that preceded an explosion.
A quiet tap on her door made her jump.
She opened it to find Thomas, the houseman, standing in the hallway, his face pale, his hands shaking slightly.
"Beatrice," he whispered, his eyes darting toward Lily’s closed door. "There’s... there’s a car at the gate. It’s not Mr. Rossi’s. It’s a black sedan with Detroit plates."
Beatrice felt her blood run cold. "The Kensingtons?"
"We don't know," Thomas said, his voice trembling. "The guards at the gatehouse aren't answering their phones. The security system... the external cameras went black five minutes ago."
"Where is Mateo's team?" Beatrice asked, her mind racing, her survival instincts—the ones she had honed during her years of being the first to spot trouble in the streets of Cicero—taking over.
"They’re... they’re checking the perimeter," Thomas stammered. "But there are only four of them left here. Most of the men went with Mr. Rossi to the docks."
"Go to Lily's room," Beatrice ordered, her voice turning firm and unyielding. She didn't have a gun, she didn't have three thousand men, but she had a child to protect, and she would be damned if she let anyone touch her again. "Lock the door from the inside. Put the heavy dresser against the handle. If anyone tries to open it, you scream as loud as you can. Do you understand?"
Thomas nodded once, his eyes wide with fear, and ran down the hall toward Lily's room.
Beatrice walked back into her room. She looked at her splinted hand, the white bandage feeling like a useless weight. She walked to the fireplace, picked up the heavy brass poker with her uninjured right hand, and gripped the handle until her knuckles turned white.
She walked out into the corridor, her steps silent on the thick carpet, her body pressed against the wall as she moved toward the grand staircase.
Through the stained-glass window of the landing, she could see the driveway.
Two black sedans were parked near the front entrance, their engines idling, their headlights cutting through the dark. Several men in long dark coats were standing near the doors, their hands in their pockets, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hats.
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The heavy oak front door of the mansion suddenly groaned, the sound of the wood splintering echoing up the stairwell like a gunshot.
They were inside.
