**** What happens when a 3-year-old notices something all the adults missed?

Marcello moved with the explosive speed of a man forged in the brutal, unforgiving environment of deep-sea industrial salvage.

He swung the heavy, dense silicone prosthetic like a club, catching Damian squarely across the side of the head. The impact knocked the bodyguard’s aim wide just as the suppressed pistol discharged with a muffled *phut*. The slug tore through the louvered door of the laundry chute, sending splinters of oak raining across the floor.

"Claire, run!" Marcello roared, lunging forward.

Before Damian could recover his balance, Marcello slammed his shoulder into the larger man’s midsection, driving him hard into the antique vanity. Perfume bottles shattered in an explosion of glass and floral scent. Damian cursed, bringing the butt of the weapon down across Marcello’s shoulder, but Marcello trapped the man’s gun wrist, twisting it violently against the edge of the marble table until the weapon clattered to the floor.

Claire didn't hesitate. She scooped Lily into her arms, bolted through the open door of the master suite, and sprinted down the dimly lit hallway toward the east wing service stairs.

"Stop them!" Victoria shrieked from inside the suite. "Damian, don't let them reach the ballroom!"

Marcello delivered a devastating short hook to Damian’s jaw, knocking the bodyguard back onto the broken glass. Grabbing the suppressed pistol and the steel cryo-box from the floor, Marcello backed out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door shut and sliding the antique exterior brass deadbolt home. Inside, Damian began pounding furiously against the solid wood.

Marcello turned and sprinted down the corridor, following the faint scent of Claire’s lemon-verbena soap.

He found them at the landing of the service stairs, huddled in the dim glow of an emergency exit sign. Claire was shaking, but her arms were locked tight around Lily, who was watching the shadowy corridor with unnerving stillness.

"Are you hit?" Marcello breathed, checking Claire’s shoulders, then Lily’s.

"We're okay," Claire gasped, her chest heaving. "Marcello, the east stairs lead down to the catering kitchens. We can get through to the garden from there."

"No," Marcello said, checking the magazine of Damian’s pistol. "If Victoria has Damian, she has other private contractors on the perimeter. If we run out into the grounds in the dark, we're targets. We need to get back into the ballroom. In front of the guests, the cameras, and the police commissioner."

"She won't let us get down that staircase," Claire said. "The moment we step onto that balcony, Damian or her men will cut the power."

As if summoned by her words, the manor groaned.

A heavy, industrial clunk echoed through the walls, followed instantly by the whine of dying generators. The crystal chandeliers in the distance flickered once, twice, and died. The emergency exit signs clicked off.

Vance Manor was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Below them, from the grand ballroom, a collective gasp rose from two hundred throats, followed by nervous laughter, the clinking of dropped glassware, and the frantic murmurs of confused elites.

In the ink-black silence of the stairwell, Lily’s voice rose, calm and steady.

"Marcello?"

"I'm here, Lily. Don't be scared."