Chapter 2 - The Assessment
Dominic didn't look at her. He bypassed the heavy leather chair behind his desk and pressed a concealed panel beneath the rim of the mahogany wood. A section of the built-in bookshelves to his left slid backward with a quiet hum, revealing a grid of high-definition security monitors.
The screens bathed the dark study in a cold, blue light.
On the center monitor, Arthur was still standing by the idling sedan. But the driver was no longer pretending to be bored. He was pacing a tight, agitated circle, his right hand slipped inside his jacket, staring intently at the reinforced glass of the front doors.
Dominic picked up a sleek, encrypted landline phone from the desk. He didn't dial; he simply pressed a single button.
"Silvio," Dominic said, his voice devoid of any inflection. "Arthur is compromised. He’s carrying a suppressed weapon in a shoulder rig. Front drive. Take him alive, but take him now."
He hung up without waiting for a response.
Nora remained pressed against the locked oak doors, her left hand still massaging her bruised right wrist. She watched the monitors. Within ten seconds, three men in dark tactical gear flooded out from the side entrance of the estate.
Arthur drew his weapon, but he was too late. Silvio, Dominic's head of security, struck Arthur with the butt of a rifle, dropping him to the gravel. They dragged the unconscious driver out of the camera's view before the blood could even stain the driveway.
It was over in less than thirty seconds.
Only then did Dominic turn his attention back to Nora.
He rested his hip against the edge of the desk. The handgun remained in his right hand, casual but lethal. The feverish heat she had felt on his skin earlier seemed to have crystallized into absolute, terrifying ice.
"Step away from the door," he ordered.
Nora hesitated, her rubber-soled shoes glued to the floor. "You used me as a shield," she said, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts to keep it flat.
"I moved you out of the line of fire," Dominic corrected smoothly. "If I had left you standing there and he panicked, you would have been the first thing he shot. Step. Away. From the door."
She took two steps forward, stopping at the edge of the Persian rug.
Dominic tilted his head, studying her as if he were seeing her for the very first time. He stripped away the gray uniform, the white trim, and the invisible aura she had spent eleven months perfecting.
"Arthur has driven me for three years," Dominic said slowly. "He passed four background checks. He was vetted by the syndicate. My security team cleared him for duty twenty minutes ago. Yet a maid—someone who scrubs my floors and polishes my mirrors—spotted a concealed weapon from twenty feet away through frosted glass."
Nora kept her chin level. "His jacket was pulling. Bespoke tailoring doesn't hang like that unless there's a foreign object ruining the line. And he was sweating."
"It's forty degrees outside."
"Which is why the sweat meant his heart rate was elevated," Nora replied automatically. "He wasn't leaning against the car. His weight was shifted to the balls of his feet. He was bracing for recoil."
Silence stretched over the room, heavy and suffocating.
Dominic’s dark eyes narrowed. He raised the gun, casually placing it on the desktop, though he stayed within arm's reach of it.
"Most people do not notice the drape of a suit jacket, Nora," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Most people do not calculate weight distribution or recoil stances. And most maids do not possess the psychological control to calmly adjust a man's tie while whispering that his assassin is standing outside."
"I needed my paycheck," Nora lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "If there was a shootout, the house would go into lockdown. I just wanted my Friday envelope."
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Dominic let out a low, humorless exhale that might have been a laugh.
"Who are you running from?" he asked.
