Chapter 2 - The Sound of Footsteps on the Hardwood
The crystal shard had barely settled into the deep weave of the Persian rug before the heavy oak door shuddered.
It wasn't a knock. It was a rhythmic, calculated rap—two knuckles, hollow and purposeful, striking the wood with the casual arrogance of men who believed they already owned the estate.
Penelope froze, her hands clutched tightly at the fabric of her black uniform skirt. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at her to dive back under the heavy duvet, to hide from the monsters walking the halls of the sprawling Southampton mansion. But Gabriel Rossi did not flinch. His shoulders remained squared, his posture an unyielding monument of ice and authority.
He didn't look at the door. Instead, his dark eyes locked onto Penelope with intense, unspoken command. Stay in character.
"Mr. Rossi?" A muffled voice cut through the thick wood. It was Tommy Gallagher, smooth and laced with a toxic veneer of politeness. "Everything alright in there? We heard a crash. Just checking to make sure our favorite housekeeper hasn't tripped over her own feet."
Gabriel didn't raise his voice, but the cold timbre carried easily across the room, dripping with calculated annoyance.
"The help is clumsy tonight, Gallagher," Gabriel barked back, his tone rough with feigned irritation. "She managed to shatter a crystal tumbler over an empty wastebasket. Clean up your people's security rosters; I didn't hire the blind to clean my quarters."
Outside, a low chuckle echoed through the hallway. "Apologies, Boss. Security protocols are tight tonight. Vincent and I just wanted to make sure everything was... secure. Can we come in and help clean the glass? Don't want you stepping on anything."
Penelope’s blood ran cold. If they open the door, if they see us both standing here staring at the bed...
Gabriel didn't hesitate. He stepped closer to Penelope, invading her personal space with a deliberate, theatrical motion. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. The sudden warmth of his body shocked her, contrasting sharply with the terrifying reality of their situation. He smelled of expensive cedar, expensive bourbon, and absolute, unfiltered danger.
"My bedroom is private, Tommy," Gabriel snarled, his voice rising just enough to sound authentically provoked. "And Penelope is currently learning the proper way to apologize for ruining my evening. Leave us."
A beat of absolute silence stretched across the corridor. The Atlantic wind howled against the reinforced glass windows, shaking the heavy drapes. Penelope held her breath, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared up into Gabriel’s unblinking gaze.
"Understood, Boss," Tommy replied, the warmth entirely draining from his voice, leaving behind a sharp, metallic edge. "Take your time. We'll be downstairs... keeping watch."
Footsteps began to recede, heavy soles fading down the carpeted hallway until the house fell back into an eerie, suffocating quiet.
Gabriel didn't let go immediately. He kept his hand firmly around Penelope's waist, his thumb pressing lightly against the fabric of her uniform.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping back to its normal, lethal quiet.
"They almost came in," Penelope whispered, her voice cracking. "If they came in here, we’d be dead right now."
"They didn't come in," Gabriel corrected calmly, releasing her and stepping back toward the fireplace. He picked up the poker, casually nudging a dying log as if he hadn't just stared down a firing squad through a piece of wood. "Because you played your part. Barely."
Penelope let out a long, shuddering breath, her knees finally giving out slightly as she leaned back against the edge of the mahogany dresser. "Barely? Mr. Rossi, I nearly threw up on your Persian rug."
"You did well, Penelope," he said, turning to look at her. The words were simple, but coming from a man like Gabriel Rossi, they carried the weight of a royal decree. "Now, we have roughly thirty-five minutes before my people clear the outer perimeters and breach the estate. Until then, we need to talk about how Tommy and Vincent managed to bypass my personal security detail."
Penelope pushed a stray strand of blond hair out of her sweaty forehead, her mind racing. "Mrs. Gable. You mentioned Mrs. Gable earlier. She manages the staff scheduling."
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed instantly. "What about her?"
"She wasn't herself today," Penelope said, pieces of the puzzle suddenly snapping together in her head. "She looked pale. She kept checking her phone every two minutes, and she sent me up here to change your linens at an unusual hour—right during the shift change when the outer cameras usually reboot."
Gabriel walked over to the mahogany desk, pulling out a sleek, encrypted tablet. His fingers flew across the glass screen. "Mrs. Gable’s husband has deep gambling debts in Atlantic City. I cleared them six months ago. It appears someone else offered to clear them a second time."
Penelope crossed her arms, shivering despite the warmth of the fire. "So we're trapped in a room with a rigged bed, surrounded by traitors who control the cameras, waiting for backup that might not even make it through the gates."
Gabriel looked up from the tablet, a faint, dangerous smirk touching the corner of his lips.
"They control the cameras," Gabriel said softly, tapping the screen. "They control the electronic locks on the front gates. But they don't know about the old smuggler's tunnel that leads directly from the wine cellar to the cliffside boathouse."
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Penelope stared at him, a tiny spark of hope igniting in her chest. "Can we reach it?"
"Not yet," Gabriel said, his eyes darkening as he walked toward the door and locked it tighter. "First, we have to find out what else they planted in this room."
