Chapter 3 - Playing the Blind King
By eight o’clock the following morning, the Cross Estate appeared completely normal to the outside world.
The sun broke through the grey Chicago smog, casting long beams of pale light across the manicured lawns. Groundskeepers rode lawnmowers across the back estate, housemaids carried fresh linens up the grand marble staircase, and the aroma of roasted coffee and fresh pastries drifted from the commercial kitchen.
Damian sat at the head of the long dining table in the sunroom, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, reading the morning financial papers.
On his left stood Frank Sterling.
Frank looked every bit the loyal veteran security chief. His silver hair was neatly trimmed, his dark suit pressed, and his demeanor composed. His broad leather watchband sat snugly on his left wrist.
“The perimeter checks came back clean this morning, boss,” Frank said, holding a digital tablet and gesturing toward the estate map. “We had a minor sensor glitch on the south gate near the rosebushes around midnight, but I ran a diagnostic myself. Just a wind-blown branch tripping the infrared.”
Damian didn't look up from his newspaper. He took a slow sip of his black coffee—unsweetened, unlike the syrupy concoction Ellie loved to make for him.
“A branch,” Damian repeated casually. “You’re sure?”
“Positive, sir. I recalibrated the lens myself. Nothing gets past us.” Frank leaned in slightly, his tone dropping into a confidential register. “Speaking of security, boss... I noticed you moved the housekeeper and her kid into the East Wing suites yesterday.”
Damian set the paper down slowly, his gray eyes locking onto Frank’s face. He didn't blink. He allowed a thick, heavy silence to stretch between them for three agonizing seconds before answering.
“Hannah Reed’s husband saved four people from a burning building before he suffocated, Frank,” Damian said flatly. “His widow was working herself into pneumonia in my house while my estate manager looked the other way. I don't run a sweatshop.”
“Of course not, boss,” Frank said quickly, raising a hand in peaceful surrender. “It’s a generous gesture. It’s just... the East Wing has four ground-floor French doors leading directly to the gardens. It’s harder to secure than the staff quarters. If rival families find out you’ve got a soft spot for the kid—”
“No one knows,” Damian interrupted, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous whisper. “Unless someone inside this house tells them. Are you telling me my security is leaking, Frank?”
Frank’s jaw tightened subtly, the tiny muscles near his ear twitching. He adjusted his cuff—the thick leather strap hiding the green snake—before offering a smooth, practiced smile.
“Never, sir. I’d lay down my life for this family. You know that. Your father’s blood is on my jacket.”
“I remember,” Damian said quietly. “I never forget a sacrifice, Frank. Nor do I forget a debt.”
Frank nodded, seemingly satisfied that Damian was still completely unaware of the conspiracy. He tapped his tablet screen. “About tomorrow’s shipment at Pier 42... Lorenzo Moretti’s representatives want to meet at noon. I’ve assigned our primary tactical unit—sixteen men, heavy armor, four vehicles—to escort you to the docks.”
“Sixteen men?” Damian feigned a slight frown. “That leaves the estate with only twelve guards on shift.”
“Twelve of our best, sir,” Frank assured him with smooth confidence. “Plus the automated turret systems and perimeter fences. You’ll be taking the heavy firepower with you to ensure Moretti doesn't try anything stupid at the waterfront.”
He’s stripping my home of its defenses, Damian thought. Leaving twelve men who answer to him, so Moretti’s strike team can walk right in.
“Sounds like a solid plan, Frank,” Damian said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “Set it up.”
“Right away, boss.”
Frank turned and walked out of the sunroom, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the marble floor.
The moment Frank vanished around the corner, Damian pulled a small, silver coin from his pocket and tapped it twice against the glass table.
From behind the heavy velvet curtain near the archway, a shadow detached itself.
It was Vance—a woman in her late thirties with short-cropped black hair, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes that held zero emotion. Vance was not part of the estate’s public security detail. She was the commander of the Ghost Cadre, a four-person covert squad funded entirely through Damian’s off-grid bank accounts in Zurich. Not even Frank Sterling knew Vance existed.
“You heard?” Damian asked quietly.
“Every word,” Vance replied, her voice crisp and dry as autumn leaves. “Sterling is setting you up for a double execution. Moretti’s hit squad will hit your motorcade on the expressway bridge to Pier 42, while a secondary team invades the mansion to take the child and secure your private ledgers.”
“How many men does Moretti have staged near the property?”
“We spotted two delivery vans parked at an abandoned gas station three miles north,” Vance reported. “Eighteen armed operators. Military-grade gear. They’re waiting for Sterling’s signal tomorrow at 12:15 p.m.”
Damian walked over to the glass doors looking out toward the East Wing gardens. In the distance, he could see little Ellie wearing bright yellow rain boots, jumping in a shallow puddle while her mother, looking pale but recovering, watched her from a wicker chair on the patio.
“We don't wait for Thursday,” Damian said softly.
May you like
Vance raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Tomorrow at noon, Frank expects me to get into that limousine,” Damian said, turning around with an expression so terrifyingly dark that even Vance instinctively took a half-step back. “I want you to bring the Ghost Cadre into the mansion tonight through the old wine cellar tunnels. We are going to turn this estate into a fortress. And when Lorenzo Moretti’s men step through that gate... they aren't coming to kidnap a child. They’re coming to die.”
