Chapter 4 - THE WATCH ON THE BALCONY
“Mr. Romano!” I called out, my voice cutting sharply through the cavernous foyer.
Vincent, who was still looming over his cowering brother, snapped his head toward me. “What is it, Claire?”
I pointed up toward the second-floor balcony. “Look!”
Vincent turned on his heel, his hand instantly dropping to the firearm holstered at his waist. But the upper landing was completely empty. The velvet draperies swayed gently in the draft from an open window, casting long, eerie shadows across the polished oak floor.
“Marco!” Vincent shouted toward the staff quarters, forgetting for a split second that his security chief had just left for the clinic. He cursed under his breath, taking the grand staircase three steps at a time.
“Stay here, Emma,” I instructed softly, letting go of her hand for just a moment. I hurried after Vincent, my heart pounding against my ribs.
When I reached the upper landing, Vincent was already sweeping through the shadows, kicking open the doors to the guest suites one by one. The hallway was ice-cold, smelling faintly of rain and expensive French perfume.
“Clear!” Vincent roared, slamming the door to the master study. He stepped back out into the corridor, his face dark with fury and confusion. “Nobody is here. How could anyone have gotten up here? The security system has the doors bolted!”
I walked slowly down the carpeted hallway, scanning the baseboards and the dark corners. Near the window where I had seen the shadow, something caught my eye on the wooden sill.
I knelt down.
Resting on the white paint was a single, damp glove made of fine black leather. Beside it lay a small, silver cufflink shaped like a serpent.
“Mr. Romano,” I called softly.
Vincent appeared beside me in a blur of motion. He looked down at the glove and the cufflink. He picked up the silver serpent, turning it over in his palm. The metal was cold and etched with intricate, expensive detailing.
“Daniel doesn't wear cufflinks,” Vincent murmured, staring at the serpent. “And Vanessa was downstairs the entire evening.”
“Then who was up here?” I asked, a shiver running down my spine.
Vincent didn't answer right away. He stood up, clutching the silver cufflink tightly in his fist. He walked over to the open window and looked down into the front courtyard, where the last of the guests' limousines were just disappearing through the iron gates.
“Someone who wants us to know they’re watching,” Vincent said grimly. He turned back to me, his dark eyes softening with sudden concern. “Take Emma to the panic room on the third floor, Claire. Not the nursery. The panic room. It’s entirely reinforced.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m going to wait for Marco to return from the doctor’s clinic,” Vincent replied, his jaw set in a hard line. “Whoever is pulling the strings from the shadows is about to run out of places to hide.”
I nodded, hurrying back down the hall to where Emma was waiting nervously at the top of the stairs. I scooped her up into my arms, burying her face against my shoulder so she wouldn't see the tension gripping the estate.
We spent the next hour locked inside the heavily fortified third-floor panic room. It was a sterile, windowless space lined with emergency rations, monitors, and communication arrays, but it felt safe. Emma eventually cried herself to sleep, her small arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her breathing finally evening out against my chest.
I sat in a leather armchair in the corner, clutching Olivia’s gold watch—which Vincent had handed to me before sending us upstairs—in my palm. The tiny lightning-shaped crack across the glass felt cool and smooth under my thumb.
What else was hidden inside this family’s past?
Around 11:30 PM, a heavy, muffled thud echoed through the reinforced steel door of the panic room.
I froze, holding my breath.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Claire?”
It was Vincent’s voice.
I stood up carefully, placing sleeping Emma down on a padded cot, and walked over to the digital control panel beside the door. I pressed the intercom button.
“Mr. Romano? Did Marco come back?” I asked.
“Open the door, Claire,” Vincent’s voice came back through the speaker. It sounded strained, heavy with exhaustion. “Marco is back. We found Dr. Vance.”
My breath caught. I punched the release code into the keypad, and the heavy steel door hissed open, swinging inward.
Vincent stood in the doorway. He looked ten years older than he had that afternoon. His suit jacket was gone, his tie was loosened, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
Standing right behind him in the hallway was Marco, flanked by two guards. And between them, shoved roughly forward, was a terrified, gray-haired man in a white lab coat.
Dr. Adrian Vance.
“Get inside,” Vincent ordered the doctor, pushing him past the threshold and into the bright lights of the panic room.
Dr. Vance stumbled, nearly tripping over his own polished shoes, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose. “Mr. Romano, this is kidnapping! You have no right—!”
“Shut up,” Vincent snarled, slamming the steel door shut behind them and locking it tight. He walked over to the doctor and grabbed him by the collar of his lab coat, lifting him off his feet. “You signed my wife’s death certificate, Adrian. You called it natural drowning. Now you’re going to tell me what was really in those brown glass vitamin bottles.”
Dr. Vance gasped for air, his hands clawing uselessly at Vincent’s grip. “I… I only followed orders! I swear to God!”
“Whose orders?” Vincent roared, shaking the doctor like a ragdoll. “Daniel’s? Vanessa’s? Who told you to kill my wife?!”
The doctor’s eyes rolled back in terror as he pointed a trembling, pale finger directly past Vincent’s shoulder.
“Not… not them,” Dr. Vance choked out, spittle flying from his lips. “The… the person on the balcony.”
Vincent froze. The air in the room instantly went dead.
He slowly lowered the doctor, letting him collapse onto the concrete floor where he coughed and gasped for oxygen.
Vincent turned around, his eyes locking onto me.
“What person on the balcony?” Vincent demanded.
May you like
Before I could answer, Dr. Vance looked up from the floor, wiping blood from his lip, and pointed another shaky finger at the pocket watch resting on the metal table.
“The person who ordered the poison,” the doctor whispered, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “The person who wears that exact same watch on a chain every single day.”
