Chapter 6 - A Whispered Treason
The ride back to Bedford was dead silent.
It wasn't until we reached the private library on the third floor of the estate—a room lined with heavy velvet curtains and thousands of leather-bound books that absorbed every stray decibel—that Marcus finally let the mask drop.
He poured three fingers of single malt into a tumbler and swallowed it in one burn.
“Dante,” Marcus called out.
From the shadows near the terrace, his most trusted lieutenant stepped forward. Dante was thirty-five, sharp-featured, with a silver streak through his dark hair and an immaculate record of loyalty dating back to Marcus’s father.
“Boss,” Dante said, bowing his head slightly.
“I want the perimeter doubled,” Marcus ordered. “Thermal sweeps every twenty minutes. If a crow lands on the north wall, I want it shot down. Moretti is planning an acoustic strike. He knows the boys' sensitivity isn't just an asset—it’s an Achilles' heel.”
“Understood,” Dante replied. He looked at me, his eyes cold and assessing. “Miss Vance. The boys performed well tonight. You have done... remarkable work.”
“Thank you,” I said, but a strange prickle of unease crawled up my neck.
There was something off about the cadence of Dante’s voice. In the past week, spending hours in silent rooms with the twins had altered my own perception. I had started paying attention to micro-rhythms—the way people matched their breath to their speech, the subtle shifts in tone when someone lied.
Dante wasn't looking at Marcus. He was looking at the ebony sticks resting on the table.
When Dante turned and walked out of the library, Luke suddenly reached out and caught the hem of my dress.
“Ellen,” he whispered, tugging me down.
I crouched between the twins. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Matthew leaned in, pressing his lips to my ear. His breath was warm, smelling of the peppermint candies I’d given them before the meeting.
“Dante smells like the Plaza Hotel,” Matthew whispered.
I froze. “What do you mean? We all were at the Plaza Hotel.”
“No,” Luke corrected softly. “Not the ballroom. The kitchen. The cigar Don Moretti was smoking. Dante’s coat smells like that smoke. But Dante was stationed at the estate all day. Papa told him to guard the house.”
Ice water flooded my veins.
Dante hadn't been at the Plaza with us. Marcus had explicitly ordered him to oversee the security grid in Bedford.
If Dante smelled like Moretti’s specific blend of Dutch Sumatra cigars, he hadn't been in Bedford at all. He had met with Silvio Moretti before the summit.
“Stay here,” I whispered to the boys. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”
I stood up and walked over to Marcus, who was leaning against his mahogany desk, staring into the cold fireplace.
“Marcus,” I said softly.
He didn't look up. “I told you to take them to their quarters, Ellen. Tonight was a victory, but the war is starting.”
“Marcus, look at me.”
The urgency in my voice broke through his brooding. He raised his dark eyes, eyebrows knitting together. “What is wrong?”
“The study vents,” I whispered, stepping so close our chests were inches apart, keeping my voice lower than a sigh. “Do they connect to the east wing security office?”
Marcus’s eyes hardened instantly. “Yes. Why?”
“Luke and Matthew smelled Don Moretti’s tobacco on Dante’s coat,” I said.
Marcus went completely, terrifyingly still. The air around him seemed to crystallize into pure, lethal intent. For three seconds, he didn't even draw breath.
“Dante has been with my family since he was sixteen,” Marcus murmured, his voice so quiet it was barely audible above the ticking grandfather clock. “He carried Matthew out of the burning car when their mother died.”
“Then why does he smell like the man who ordered the hit at Il Destino?” I countered, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Marcus, your sons don't lie. They don't have visual bias. They don't see his loyal face or his clean record. They just process the data.”
Before Marcus could answer, the lights in the library flickered once.
Twice.
Then the estate plunged into pitch darkness.
The heavy hum of the central generator didn't kick in. In the distance, through the reinforced glass of the terrace doors, three sharp, muffled pops sounded.
Silenced gunshots.
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“Perimeter breached,” Marcus whispered, his hand instantly going to his shoulder holster. “They didn't come with an army. They came from the inside.”
***
