Chapter 4
Darkness lasted four seconds.
Long enough.
Chairs moved.
Somebody cursed.
Glass broke.
I heard a bodyguard draw his weapon.
“Stay where you are.”
My voice carried across the room.
Emergency lights turned on.
Low.
Amber.
Enough to see faces.
Enough to see who had moved.
Three people were no longer at the table.
One was Graham Voss.
My father's old capo.
One was Daniel Crest, head of east-side security.
And one was Merritt.
Ione remained seated.
That surprised me.
Then I saw why.
I had one hand around her wrist.
I didn't remember grabbing her.
Instinct.
Useful thing.
“Where is your husband?”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I don't.”
A shot cracked somewhere below us.
Not inside the dining room.
Basement level.
Then another.
My bodyguards moved.
I raised one hand.
Half stayed.
Half went.
That was how the Halbrook house worked.
Nobody left me completely exposed.
Not even family.
Especially family.
I looked at Daniel's empty chair.
He had controlled the eastern cameras for nine years.
The same side of the estate where the hidden service entrance had just been opened.
That was not coincidence.
I looked at Ione.
“You didn't drug me to kill me.”
She said nothing.
“You needed me asleep.”
Still nothing.
“Why?”
Her eyes moved toward the staircase.
Upstairs.
Nash.
I stood.
Ione grabbed my sleeve.
“Wait.”
Wrong word.
Wrong movement.
I turned.
“Why?”
Her hand fell away.
She stared at me.
For the first time all night, I saw something behind the arrogance.
Not guilt.
Fear for something.
Or someone.
“Cassian, don't go upstairs.”
That sentence emptied the room around me.
I grabbed her arm.
“Why?”
She looked at the floor.
“Ione.”
Nothing.
I pulled her closer.
“What is upstairs?”
Her eyes filled.
I had never seen my aunt cry.
Not when my father died.
Not when her own sister died.
Not when Merritt spent three months recovering from a shooting.
Now she was crying.
“Nash.”
I let go.
Then ran.
I didn't remember reaching the staircase.
Elias met me halfway down.
“Nash is safe.”
I stopped.
“Where?”
“Your room.”
“With?”
“Two men.”
“Names.”
“Rourke and Miles.”
Men I trusted.
Men Nash knew.
I kept moving.
“Who came upstairs?”
“No one.”
“Ione told me not to.”
Elias looked at me.
That bothered him too.
We reached the landing.
Nash's door was open.
My bedroom door was closed.
Rourke stood outside.
Miles inside.
Both alive.
Both alert.
I entered.
Nash sat on my bed wrapped in a clean robe.
My jacket lay beside him.
He had been washed.
His hair was still wet.
The moment he saw me, he slid off the mattress.
“Daddy!”
I caught him.
He wrapped himself around my waist.
I lifted him.
“Did anyone come in?”
He shook his head.
“Anyone knock?”
Another shake.
Then he pointed toward the balcony doors.
“The funny man.”
I turned.
“Who?”
Nash frowned.
“He waved.”
My hand tightened against his back.
“From where?”
He pointed.
“Outside.”
Second floor.
Private balcony.
No external staircase.
I crossed the room.
The balcony doors were locked.
I opened them.
Cold air hit my face.
Snow covered the stone.
And in the center of it was a single footprint.
Fresh.
Large.
Someone had climbed onto my son's balcony.
I looked over the railing.
Thirty feet below was the east garden.
A decorative trellis ran up one wall.
Enough for a trained man.
I turned toward Elias.
“They weren't here for the basement.”
His expression hardened.
“They were here for Nash.”
Behind me, my son whispered:
“Daddy?”
I turned.
He was holding something.
A folded piece of black cloth.
My blood went cold.
“Where did you get that?”
“The funny man.”
“When?”
“Before dinner.”
He opened his small hand.
Inside the cloth was a silver coin.
One side bore the Halbrook crest.
The other had been scratched through with a knife.
I knew what it meant.
Old family signal.
May you like
Blood debt.
Someone had marked my three-year-old son for collection.
