Chapter 4 - The Intruder in the West WingBy midnight, the mansion was buried in an unnatural stillness.
I sat up in my narrow bed in the staff quarters on the third floor, staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on my nightstand ticked silently: 12:43 a.m. Sleep was entirely out of the question. Every creak of the old wooden floors, every whistle of the autumn wind against the glass pane, sounded like footsteps outside my door.
Dominic’s words kept replaying in my mind: You’re safer here. With me.
I scoffed quietly to myself in the dark. Safer? I was sleeping three floors away from a man who hunted killers for a living, working in a house where someone had murdered his sister ten years ago and might currently be lurking in the shadows.
Deciding that staring at the ceiling wasn't helping my nerves, I slipped out of bed, pulled on a thick wool cardigan over my pajamas, and tiptoed out into the hallway. I needed a glass of water.
The grand staircase was bathed in moonlight streaming through the high stained-glass windows. The mansion felt completely different at night—less like a luxurious home and more like a museum of secrets. I padded silently down the corridor toward the large communal kitchen on the ground floor.
As I passed the double doors leading to the west wing, I froze.
A faint sound drifted down the hallway.
Click.
It wasn't the wind. It sounded like the muffled click of a heavy door latch falling into place.
My breath hitched. The west wing was strictly off-limits to everyone except Dominic. Marcus was stationed in the security annex on the opposite side of the estate tonight. If someone was in the west wing...
My heart hammered against my ribs. I should have gone back to my room. I should have locked my door and stayed under the covers. But curiosity—and a stubborn, reckless streak I didn't know I possessed—got the better of me.
Slowly, carefully, I crept toward the walnut doors of the west wing. They were pushed open just a fraction of an inch. A thin sliver of pale moonlight cut across the dark hardwood floor inside.
I pushed the door open wider. It swung inward with an agonizing, silent glide.
The hallway of the west wing was dark, but a faint amber glow spilled out from Sofia’s music room at the far end. Someone was inside.
I crept forward, my bare feet making no sound against the thick runner rug. As I neared the open door of the music room, shadows flickered against the wall. I pressed my back against the corridor wall and peeked around the doorframe.
A figure was standing by the grand piano.
Dressed all in black, wearing thin leather gloves, the intruder was methodically going through the stacks of handwritten sheet music and vinyl records. A small tactical flashlight was clenched between their teeth, illuminating the shelves.
They were looking for the recorder. Or worse—they were looking for something else Dominic had missed.
Panic surged through my veins. I backed away slowly, intending to run for the security alarm panel by the main staircase. But my heel caught the edge of a loose floorboard.
Creak.
The sound was deafening in the dead of night.
The figure froze. The flashlight dropped from their mouth, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. In a flash, the intruder spun around, drawing a sleek, silenced pistol from their jacket.
Before I could scream, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist from behind, dragging me violently backward into the shadows of an adjacent alcove. A large, warm hand clamped firmly over my mouth, cutting off my breath.
I thrashed wildly, my elbows striking out in sheer panic.
“Quiet,” a low, dangerous growl whispered directly into my ear.
Dominic.
I stopped struggling instantly. Dominic’s muscular frame pressed against my back, shielding me completely from the line of sight of the music room. In his right hand, he held his own weapon—a heavy, matte-black Glock, raised and ready.
Across the hall, the intruder snapped their head toward our direction, holding the silenced pistol steady.
“Who’s there?” a harsh, raspy voice called out from the doorway of the music room.
Dominic didn't answer. He exhaled slowly, his body coiled like a striking viper.
The intruder took a cautious step into the hallway, sweeping the barrel of their gun back and forth. “I know someone’s out there. Show yourself!”
Dominic waited until the intruder stepped directly beneath the overhead archway where the shadow cast by the architectural molding obscured our spot by mere inches.
With blinding speed, Dominic shoved me gently behind him, stepped out of the alcove, and fired.
Thwack.
The bullet didn't hit flesh; it embedded itself squarely into the wood paneling right beside the intruder’s head, showering them in splinters.
“Drop the gun,” Dominic’s voice boomed through the hallway—cold, flat, and absolute.
The intruder panicked, swinging their pistol toward Dominic. But Dominic was faster. He closed the distance in two giant strides, slamming his boot heel into the intruder’s wrist. The gun went flying, skittering across the polished floorboards.
With a brutal, controlled strike, Dominic swept the intruder’s legs out from under them, pinning them facedown to the floor with his knee planted squarely between their shoulder blades. He jammed his pistol against the back of the intruder’s neck.
“Move an inch, and you won't live to see sunrise,” Dominic snarled.
I stepped out from the alcove, my hands trembling as I clutched my cardigan tightly around my chest.
Dominic reached down with his free hand, grabbed the intruder by the collar of their black jacket, and yanked their head up, ripping away the dark ski mask they wore.
In the dim amber light, the pale, terrified face of the mansion’s senior groundskeeper stared back at us.
It wasn't Arthur Pendelton. But as I looked closer at the trembling man beneath Dominic’s boot, I recognized him immediately. It was Thomas, the man who had worked on the estate for over twelve years.
“Boss...” Thomas choked out, spitting blood onto the hardwood. “Boss, please... I had no choice!”
Dominic’s face was a mask of pure fury. “Who put you up to it, Thomas?”
“It was Arthur!” Thomas gasped, tears pooling in his eyes. “He came back! He said if I didn't find that recorder and destroy it, my family would pay! Boss, I swear to God, I didn't kill Sofia! I just helped them cover it up ten years ago!”
Dominic stopped breathing. The gun in his hand trembled—not with fear, but with a murderous rage I had never witnessed before.
“You covered it up,” Dominic whispered, the words sounding like breaking glass.
“Yes!” Thomas sobbed. “Arthur cut the brakes! I saw him do it in the garage the night before! But he threatened to kill my wife and daughter if I told anyone! I took the payoff to keep my mouth shut!”
Dominic stared down at the man who had smiled at him, eaten meals on his estate, and worked under his roof for over a decade.
For a terrifying moment, I thought Dominic was going to pull the trigger.
“Dominic—no,” I whispered, stepping forward and placing a trembling hand on his broad shoulder.
His muscles were as rigid as steel under my fingers. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes burning into mine, wild and untamed.
“He helped kill my sister, Rachel,” Dominic said, his voice cracking with suppressed agony.
“I know,” I said softly, my voice steadying despite my fear. “And he’s going to pay for it. But not like this. If you kill him here, you let him off easy. Make him talk. Find Arthur.”
Dominic stared at me for a long, agonizing heartbeat. Slowly, the murderous haze in his eyes receded, replaced by cold, calculating resolve.
He stood up, hauling Thomas to his feet by his collar with one hand, and shoved him hard against the wall.
“Marcus!” Dominic roared down the hallway.
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Within three seconds, Marcus appeared at the end of the hall, gun drawn, followed by two armed guards. Marcus took one look at Thomas and the scene before him, and his expression hardened.
“Take him down to the basement security holding room,” Dominic ordered, his voice like freezing water. “And find Arthur Pendelton. Tonight.”
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