Chapter 7 - The Midnight Visitor
The knock on the front door didn't sound like the polite rapping of a neighbor or the official thud of local police. It was a heavy, rhythmic, double-tap pattern—the kind used by couriers who carried certified federal warrants or men who didn't intend to take no for an answer.
Grace froze halfway across the kitchen floor, a mug of chamomile tea warm in her hands.
Dominic was upstairs in his study reviewing encrypted cargo manifests. Within three seconds of the second knock, the ambient house sounds shifted—the subtle click of a security relay disengaging, followed by the quiet, heavy tread of Dominic descending the back stairs. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore, but the dark holster strapped beneath his left arm was unmistakable.
"Stay in the kitchen, Grace," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a flat, absolute command.
"Dominic, wait—"
"Stay," he repeated, stepping past the counter toward the front hall with the cold, deliberate grace of a predator tracking movement in the brush.
Grace set her mug down on the counter, her fingers cold. For six years, she had lived under the shadow of a past she had deliberately buried. She had traded her real name, her family history, and her academic credentials for the anonymity of grease-stained aprons and minimum-wage tips. She had trusted Dominic to keep the world from looking too closely.
Yet as the heavy front door creaked open, the voice that echoed into the quiet hallway didn't belong to a state trooper or an angry investor.
"Good evening, Dominic," a smooth, raspy voice called out from the dark porch. "I trust you didn't miss me too much while I was rotting in a federal holding facility."
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Dominic’s body went completely rigid in the doorway.
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