Chapter 5 - The Shadow at the Door
The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed three times, its deep, resonant gong vibrating through the floorboards of the study.
Emma clutched the journal to her chest, her mind racing. The wall safe behind the grandfather clock. Luca had left her an arsenal of leverage—secrets, account numbers, and the identities of every wolf circling their family.
She stood up quickly, walking out of the study and into the darkened foyer. The heavy wooden grandfather clock stood tall against the eastern wall, casting a long, skeletal shadow in the moonlight filtering through the high windows.
Emma approached the clock, opened its glass-paneled door, and swung the heavy brass pendulum to stop its swinging. Inside, behind the wooden backing panel, was a small biometric keypad.
She pressed her thumb against the scanner, remembering how Luca had once joked that he registered all his siblings' biometrics just in case he ever got locked out of his own house.
BEEP.
A soft green light blinked, and the back panel swung open with a smooth, oiled click.
Inside sat a stack of thick manila folders, labeled with names of rival bosses, corrupt politicians, and treacherous captains within their own ranks. Resting on top of the files was a heavy, snub-nosed Beretta pistol—Luca’s personal sidearm.
Emma reached out and picked up the gun. Its cold steel felt foreign and terrifying in her hand, yet it offered a grim sense of reality. The innocent life she had lived—working at a quiet art gallery, worrying about petty gallery politics—was officially over.
Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence of the house.
Creak.
It wasn't the settling of old timber. It was the distinct sound of a floorboard shifting in the front hallway.
Emma froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She flicked the safety off the Beretta, raising the barrel toward the foyer archway.
"Who's there?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
No one answered. Only the heavy sound of breathing drifted in from the dark hallway.
Emma crept toward the archway, pressing her back against the wall. She peered around the corner into the foyer.
Standing near the front door, half-submerged in shadow, was a tall, slender silhouette. The figure wasn't hiding; they were standing completely still, as if listening to the house breathe.
"Step into the light," Emma demanded, raising the gun higher, her arms shaking. "Or I will shoot."
The figure slowly stepped forward, bathed in the pale moonlight pouring through the transom window above the door.
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It wasn't an assassin. It wasn't a rival mobster.
It was Clara.
