Chapter 3 - Night Terrors and Hidden Guns
By 2:00 AM, the mansion was dead quiet, wrapped in the dark shroud of the Westchester woods.
Claire lay awake in the guest room bed, listening to the soft, steady breathing of Lily sleeping beside her. But her mind was racing, counting down the hours until Sunday evening. Thirty-nine hours left.
Suddenly, a muffled scream tore through the quiet house.
It wasn't a scream of anger or mischief. It was the terrified, gut-wrenching cry of a child caught in a nightmare.
Claire swung her legs out of bed instantly. She pulled on her robe, stepped into the hallway, and ran toward the boys' bedroom.
The door was slightly ajar. Inside, Noah was thrashing wildly under his dark blue comforter, his face slick with sweat, his eyes squeezed shut as he sobbed in his sleep. Caleb and Miles were sitting up in their own beds, staring at their brother with pale, helpless faces.
"Noah! Noah, wake up!" Claire rushed to the side of the bed, reaching out to gently shake his shoulder.
"NO! DADDY! LOOK OUT!" Noah screamed, kicking his legs, his hands clawing at the sheets. "THE FIRE! GET HIM OUT!"
Claire didn't hesitate. She slid onto the edge of the mattress, pulling the thrashing child into her arms, wrapping her sweater around him, and pulling his trembling body firmly against her chest.
"Shh... I've got you, Noah. I've got you," Claire whispered, her hand gently stroking his hair, pulling him close. "You're safe. You're in your room. The fire isn't here."
Noah’s small hands instinctively clutched the fabric of Claire's robe. He gasped for air, his chest heaving as he slowly pulled out of the nightmare, his eyes fluttering open to see Claire’s warm, calm face inches from his own.
"Claire...?" Noah sobbed, his voice tiny and broken.
"I'm here," Claire murmured, rocking him slowly back and forth. "Breathe with me, buddy. In... and out. Good boy. Just like that."
In the shadow of the open doorway, a tall frame stood completely still.
Adrian had reached the room seconds after Claire. He stood in the dark corridor, his hand resting on the frame, watching through the crack of the door.
He saw how Claire held his son—not with fear, not with professional distance, but with the fierce, protective tenderness of a mother who would shield a child with her own life. He watched as Noah, the most rebellious and aggressive of his three boys, buried his face into the crook of Claire's neck and let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
Adrian’s chest tightened with a strange, agonizing pressure.
For three years, every time his sons cried out in the night, Adrian had stood outside their door, terrified to enter. He was a man whose hands carried the dark weight of violent syndicate wars; he was terrified that if he touched his fragile, grieving children, he would only pass his own darkness onto them.
As Adrian watched Claire rock his son back to sleep, a low sound echoed from the lower floor of the mansion.
It wasn't a sound a normal person would notice—just the faint, subtle click of a heavy iron security door being bypassed near the rear terrace.
May you like
Adrian’s posture transformed in a fraction of a second. The weary father vanished, replaced by the lethal, hyper-vigilant syndicate leader. He reached beneath his leather shoulder holster, silently drawing a custom sleek pistol from its sheath.
He turned toward the dark hallway, his boots making absolute zero sound against the carpet as he descended the rear service stairs toward the ground floor.
