Chapter 2 - The Snake in the Garden
The rain began to fall at midnight, heavy silver sheets washing against the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows of my ground-floor study.
The room smelled of old leather, expensive scotch, and the sharp scent of gun oil. On my heavy mahogany desk lay the matte-black ultrasonic device, dismantled into three separate components by my chief technology specialist, Leo.
Standing before my desk were twenty-four people—every single staff member who possessed access to the second floor of the Lake Forest estate. Nannies, housekeepers, maintenance workers, and personal security guards stood in a nervous line, their eyes fixed on the floorboards.
Marco stood at my right hand, his heavy trench coat open, revealing his shoulder holster.
"Leo," I said, staring into the amber liquid in my crystal glass. "Tell me what you found."
Leo pulled up a diagnostic tablet. "The device is a custom-built unit, Boss. It doesn't use Wi-Fi or Bluetooth—that's why our perimeter electronic sweeps didn't flag it. It operates on a simple pre-set timer. It was activated at exactly 6:00 PM tonight."
"And who installed it?" I asked, my voice smooth as silk, yet laced with lethal intent.
"The adhesive on the back of the box is fresh industrial mounting tape," Leo explained. "Whoever stuck it inside the air vent had to do it within the last twelve hours. Furthermore, I recovered a smudge from the casing. It’s not a fingerprint—it’s a micro-trace of synthetic lubricant."
I slowly lifted my eyes from my glass and scanned the line of staff members.
"Synthetic lubricant," I repeated. "The kind used exclusively on high-end European clockwork... or luxury security locks."
I stood up slowly, leaning my heavy palms against the polished surface of the desk. The room grew instantly colder. Several of the younger housekeepers began to tremble.
"I built this home to be a fortress," I said quietly, my voice echoing off the dark wood paneling. "When my wife, Isabella, passed away during childbirth eight months ago, I swore an oath over her grave that no harm would ever reach Theo, Miles, and Nora. I pay every person in this room five times the market rate. I cover your families' healthcare. I send your children to private schools."
I took a step around the desk, my polished leather shoes clicking against the hardwood.
"And yet, one of you took money from an outside dog to torture my babies."
Silence stretched over the room, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of rain against the glass.
Suddenly, a young maintenance worker near the back of the line—a twenty-four-year-old named Julian, whom I had hired six months ago to oversee the estate’s HVAC and electrical systems—shifted his weight awkwardly. His right hand twitched toward his pocket.
Marco’s eyes caught the movement instantly.
In a flash of motion, Marco lunged forward, grabbing Julian by his collar and slamming him violently onto the heavy mahogany desk, sweeping the crystal glasses to the floor with a deafening shatter.
"Search him!" I snapped.
Marco jammed his gloved hand into Julian's jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, silver cipher key—the master override key used to access the estate's internal ductwork control panels.
Julian’s face went white as paper. "Mr. Moretti, please! I didn't know what it was! I swear to God I didn't know!"
"Who paid you?" I asked, walking over until I was standing inches from Julian's terrified face. I reached down, grabbed him by his chin, and squeezed until his teeth clacked together. "Give me a name, Julian. Give it to me in the next three seconds, or you will never walk out of this basement."
"It... it was a man named Victor!" Julian sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks. "He met me at a diner in Cicero three days ago! He gave me fifty thousand dollars in cash! He said it was just a white-noise transmitter to mess with your security system! He said nobody would get hurt!"
"Victor Falcone," Marco growled softly, looking at me. "The underboss of the Falcone syndicate."
The Falcone family. Our long-time rivals in the Chicago Outfit. Old Don Falcone had died two months ago, leaving his volatile, ruthless son, Lorenzo Falcone, in charge. Lorenzo had been pushing against our northern shipping territories for weeks, but I had never imagined he would sink so low as to attack my infant children in their own nursery.
"Take him down to the wine cellar," I ordered coldly, waving my hand dismissively toward Julian. "Keep him alive. We will use him to deliver a message to Lorenzo."
As two guards dragged the screaming maintenance worker out of the study, the heavy oak doors opened again.
Elena stood in the hallway, carrying a small silver tray with a fresh cup of black coffee. Behind her skirt, four-year-old Sophie peeked out, holding her ragged doll.
The tension in my chest eased slightly at the sight of the child.
"Adrien," Elena said hesitantly, using my first name for the first time in three years. "I'm sorry to interrupt. The babies are awake... but they aren't crying. They're just... waiting."
I walked out of the study, past the lingering scent of fear, and looked down at little Sophie.
"Sophie," I said gently, kneeling beside her. "Would you like to come upstairs and help me watch the babies tonight?"
May you like
Sophie smiled, her bright hazel eyes shining beneath the chandelier. "Can Mr. Patch come too?"
"Mr. Patch," I replied, a rare, genuine smile touching my lips, "is officially the chief of security for the nursery."
