Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Corridors
The ground floor of the Romano estate was pitch black, save for the pale slivers of moonlight cutting through the tall arched windows during lulls in the storm.
I moved through the grand ballroom like a phantom. My footsteps made no sound against the Persian rugs. In my world, darkness wasn't something to fear; it was a weapon.
Through the double-paned glass of the front courtyard, I saw shadows moving.
Four men in tactical gear, faces covered by black balaclavas, were methodically breaching the front doors. A sharp crack echoed through the hall as the heavy oak reinforcement bar was blown apart by a small explosive charge.
The heavy doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold, wet wind.
“Clear the foyer,” a harsh voice hissed. It was Marcus. I recognized the slight rasp in his voice from years of standing beside him in smoke-filled boardrooms. “Romano is probably holed up in his study with his ledgers. Find him. Make it look like a botched robbery by rival enforcers.”
The intruders fanned out into the house, moving with professional military precision. They expected an isolated target. They didn't know I had lived in these shadows since I was ten years old.
I slipped behind a marble pillar near the base of the grand staircase as the first enforcer jogged past, his assault rifle sweeping back and forth.
He never saw me coming.
In one fluid motion, I stepped out from behind the pillar, clamped my left hand over his mouth to choke off any sound, and drove the butt of my pistol hard against the base of his tactical helmet. He went limp instantly. I caught his dead weight, lowered him silently to the marble floor, and stripped his spare magazines and encrypted radio before vanishing back into the shadows.
“Alpha team to Command,” a voice crackled quietly over the dead enforcer’s radio. “Foyer is clear. Moving toward the east wing. Status on target?”
I keyed the transmitter, mimicking the dead man’s cadence.
“Target sighted near the library. Proceed with caution.”
“Copy that. Moving in.”
Let them chase ghosts.
I circled around through the service pantries, cutting through the kitchen where the smell of leftover flour and cleaning products lingered. The kitchen led directly to the security monitoring station—the very room Marcus had commandeered to cut the power.
The door to the security room was ajar. A single red LED light blinked on the master console.
I raised my pistol, pushed the door open with my boot, and stepped inside.
Marcus sat alone in the dim glow of the monitors, frantically typing codes into the override keyboard, trying to wipe the server logs. He had taken off his balaclava, revealing his slicked-back graying hair and sweat-beaded forehead.
“Looking for something, Marcus?” I asked.
The sound of my voice made Marcus leap out of his chair so violently his rolling stool crashed into the console. He whipped around, his eyes bulging as he stared down the barrel of my gun.
“D-Dante...?” Marcus stammered, his color completely draining. “You... you weren't supposed to be back until Thursday. The flight manifest—”
“The flight manifest was classified,” I finished coldly, stepping closer. “Just like the shipment schedules you sold to the Outfit last month. Just like the security blind spots you set up tonight so your hit squad could walk right through my front gate.”
Marcus swallowed hard, his hand trembling as it hovered near the holster on his belt. “Boss... listen to me. It’s a misunderstanding. The Outfit—they threatened my family—!”
“Don't insult my intelligence by lying to my face,” I snarled, pistol whip striking him across the jaw with enough force to send him crashing into the rack of server towers.
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Marcus slid down the metal grating, groaning, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.
“Who else is on the payroll?” I demanded, pressing the barrel of my Sig Sauer squarely between his eyes. “Give me every name, or I’ll feed you to the docks myself.”
