Chapter 13 - THE SECOND FLOOR PATROL
At six o'clock in the morning, the first gray light of dawn filtered through the heavy crimson drapes of the second-floor gallery. The estate was beginning to wake. In the ground-floor industrial kitchen, the domestic staff prepared morning coffee and breakfast trays under the watchful eyes of armed security personnel stationed at every entrance.
In the upper hallway, Victor walked the polished hardwood floor, his heavy leather boots making a steady, rhythmic sound against the runner rugs. His rain-slicked trench coat had been replaced by a sharp, dark suit jacket, but his right hand remained close to his left lapel, where his sidearm was holstered.
He stopped outside the heavy oak doors of Roman's private study.
Victor was a man built on instinct and paranoia. He had served under Roman for four years, but his true allegiance belonged to Marcus Vance—the ruthless council member quietly orchestrating a coup from the shadows. Victor had been paid five hundred thousand dollars to ensure that if Julian's children had somehow escaped the Manhattan fire, they would not find refuge in Boston.
Last night's brief interaction in the study continued to bug him. Roman had been too calm, too composed. The industrial vacuum sitting behind the armchair, the faint scent of rain and damp cotton in the room... something in his tactical mind refused to settle.
Victor reached out, his thick fingers grasping the brass door handle. He didn't knock. He slowly turned the handle, letting the latch disengage without a sound, and pushed the door inward three inches.
He peered through the gap.
The private study was empty. The hearth was down to glowing gray embers. Roman's grand mahogany desk was clean, the crystal carafe put away, the laptop gone.
Victor stepped fully into the room, his eyes scanning every corner with practiced, predatory precision. He walked straight to the west wall, stopping directly in front of the massive bookcase. He reached out, his fingers running along the dark leather spines of the books, testing for loose mechanisms, hidden switches, or hollow panels.
He pulled on a heavy volume of European history. Nothing happened. He pushed against a brass bookend on the middle shelf. It remained solid.
"Looking for a specific title, Victor?"
The voice came from behind him—cool, deep, and razor-sharp.
Victor spun around instantly, his hand dropping to his holster before he caught himself.
Roman stood in the open doorway leading from his private bedroom suite. He was wearing a dark, tailored charcoal suit, his white shirt crisp and unwrinkled, his dark hair combed back neatly. He looked entirely rested, entirely dominant, carrying a leather-bound briefing folder under his arm.
"Boss," Victor said smoothly, forcing his hand away from his lapel, his face relaxing into a practiced, respectful mask. "Just doing the morning security check. Making sure the suite was locked down while you rested."
Roman walked slowly into the room, stepping past Victor without giving him the courtesy of direct eye contact. He set his leather folder down on the mahogany desk and poured himself a cup of black espresso from a silver tray that had been delivered via the service elevator.
"I don't remember authorizing morning checks inside my private quarters, Victor," Roman said, taking a slow sip of the hot liquid.
"Given the news from Manhattan, Boss," Victor replied, taking a step closer to the desk, his eyes searching Roman's face for any sign of hesitation, "we're on high alert. Vance sent a memo at 4:00 a.m. expecting all regional bosses to increase internal security. He wants to ensure no retaliatory strikes hit the Boston estate."
Roman set his espresso cup down on the saucer with a soft, metallic clink. He turned his body slowly, his cold grey eyes locking onto Victor's face with terrifying intensity.
"Julian was my brother, Victor," Roman said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "If retaliatory strikes are coming, they will not be coming to this house. They will be originating from it."
Victor held his breath for a long, tense beat. The cold authority in Roman's eyes was absolute. "Understood, Boss. I'll double the guards on the outer gates."
"Do that," Roman said, turning his back to him. "And Victor?"
Victor stopped at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. "Yes, Boss?"
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"If I find you inside my private study without an invitation again," Roman said softly, "I won't ask you what book you were looking for. I will simply have you removed from the payroll. Permanently."
Victor swallowed hard, nodding once. "Understood." He stepped back out into the gallery and pulled the heavy oak doors shut.
