Chapter 2 - The House on Blackwater Bay
Megan’s voice had dropped to a nervous whisper through the static of the hospital phone line.
"Vincent Marlowe isn’t just an employer, Savannah," Megan had cautioned. "They call him the Iron Lord of the Rhode Island coast. He owns shipping terminals, construction conglomerates, and half the municipal government in Providence. People don’t just walk onto his estate. You interview with his chief of security, you sign three different nondisclosure agreements before you even see the front gate, and you keep your head down."
Savannah had looked down at the hospital billing statement in her hand, then across the sterile room where her mother was hooked up to the dialysis machine that kept her alive.
"Does he pay on time?" Savannah asked.
"In cash or direct deposit every Friday without fail," Megan replied.
"Then sign me up."
That had been seven weeks ago.
Now, standing frozen in the dark second-floor hallway of the Marlowe estate while rain lashed against the reinforced windows, Savannah realized Megan hadn’t told her half of it.
The security alarm downstairs was dead, choked into sudden silence, but the echoes of the men shouting below were creeping up the grand staircase. The power failure had plunged the sprawling, gothic mansion into an ink-black abyss, save for the eerie, flickering strobe of lightning flashing over Blackwater Bay.
And right in front of her stood two Vincent Marlowes.
The original Vincent—cold, impeccably tailored, and lethal—held three-year-old Lucy securely against his broad chest. The child was completely unafraid, clutching her battered stuffed rabbit, Scout, with one hand while holding out two pieces of tarnished silver.
Across from him stood the stranger. He was an exact mirror image of Vincent, down to the aristocratic nose, the square jaw, and the streak of silver at the temples. But unlike Vincent, this man wore a torn, mud-soaked tactical jacket, had a jagged scar tracing down his left cheek, and was bleeding heavily from a deep gash on his upper right arm.
"Evan," Vincent repeated, his voice dropping into a register so dark and fractured it sounded like stones grinding together. "You're dead."
The stranger—Evan—let out a harsh, gravelly laugh that hitched into a wince as he shifted his weight. "Hard to die when your own family digs a shallow enough hole, Vinny."
"Daddy?" Lucy piped up, looking confusedly between the two men. "Why does this man look like a mirror?"
"Hush, baby," Savannah whispered, finally finding her voice. She rushed forward, her bare feet padding frantically across the hardwood floor, and gently pulled Lucy out of Vincent's arms. She held her daughter tight against her chest, her wide eyes darting back and forth between the twins. "What is happening? Who are they? Who's downstairs?"
"Professional clean-up crew," Evan answered tersely, his dark eyes fixed on the grand staircase behind them. He unholstered a heavy, suppressed pistol with his left hand, checking the magazine with practiced ease. "And they aren't here to renegotiate your housekeeping contract, Ms. Reed."
Vincent didn't look at Savannah. His gaze was locked entirely on his twin, the man the Marlowe family had buried thirty years ago after a rigged fishing boat explosion off the coast of Narragansett.
"How?" Vincent demanded, his chest heaving. "Our uncle identified the body. We held a funeral."
"Uncle Sterling was very good at buying coroners," Evan spat back bitterly. "Just like he was very good at arranging accidents for nephews who asked too many questions about the family shipping books. Now, are we going to stand here reminiscing over family history while Sterling's hit squad finishes clearing the ground floor, or are we going to get the kid and the staff out of here?"
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Vincent’s jaw tightened. The shock in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating fury of a syndicate boss whose domain had just been breached.
"The panic room," Vincent decided swiftly, grabbing Savannah’s elbow to guide her toward the western wing. "Move."
