Chapter 4 - The Rain-Soaked Threshold
The storm broke with full fury on Friday night.
High-altitude winds shrieked against the reinforced glass of Seacliff House, driving sheets of freezing rain horizontal across the cliffs. Lightning fractured the sky in brilliant, jagged flashes, followed seconds later by thunder that shook the heavy chandeliers in the hallways.
Dante was in his study on the second floor, reviewing financial records with Salvatore Mercer, when the intercom on his desk buzzed with a sharp, piercing static.
"Dante," Sal said, leaning forward from his leather chair. "Something’s wrong in the west wing."
Dante didn't answer. He was already out of his chair, drawing his Sig Sauer P226 from its holster under his arm as he moved toward the heavy oak door.
A high-pitched, frantic sound echoed down the corridor—the unmistakable scream of a woman in absolute terror.
"She’s killing him! Mr. Moretti, please—she’s killing the baby!"
The scream tore through the rain-soaked estate just as Dante reached the top of the grand staircase.
He did not remember running. He only remembered the nursery door standing wide open, the yellow light spilling out into the dark hallway, Clara Bell crawling backward across the plush carpet in hysterics, and his six-month-old nephew lying motionless beneath a woman holding a gleaming silver blade to his throat.
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Vivienne Cross, Dante’s fiancée, did not turn when he entered.
Her pale, high-necked dress was already stained with a dark, wet smear of the baby’s blood.
