Chapter 8 - The Ghost at the Gate
Clare pulled her wrist from his grasp with a sharp jerk, taking a half-step back. "I'm just tired, Mr. Lombardi. I want to go home."
Sebastian narrowed his eyes, the warmth in his expression cooling instantly into the calculating gaze of a man who didn't survive twenty years in the underworld by ignoring red flags. Before he could press her further, the heavy double doors of the study burst open.
Gabriel strode into the room, his face carved from stone, his phone pressed to his ear. He didn't bother waiting for permission to speak.
"Boss," Gabriel said, his voice dropping an octave. "We have a breach on the perimeter sensors. North gate. Someone tripped the tripwires, and the security feeds just went dead for a three-block radius."
Sebastian’s relaxed posture vanished in a heartbeat. The frail, recovering patient dissolved, replaced instantly by the ruthless syndicate boss. He gripped the wheels of his chair, spinning around to face Gabriel. "Moretti?"
"Has to be," Gabriel replied, his hand resting firmly on his weapon. "They're making a play. They know you're getting mobility back. They couldn't wait."
Sebastian looked from Gabriel back to Clare. His dark eyes flicked to her canvas medical bag resting on the floor, then to her pale, rigid face. A cold, dangerous realization dawned in his eyes.
"You didn't come here alone tonight, did you, Clare?" Sebastian’s voice was deathly quiet, carrying a weight that felt heavier than the lake outside.
"What? No—I came alone! Gabriel drove me!" Clare stammered, panic threatening to tear her throat apart.
"Gabriel," Sebastian commanded without breaking eye contact with Clare. "Lock down the estate. Cut all internal power. Bring me the encrypted comms."
Before Gabriel could move, a deafening explosion shattered the heavy silence. The sound ripped through the estate from the direction of the front courtyard, shaking the massive mahogany windows and sending a shockwave that rattled the glassware across the room. Plaster dust rained down from the ceiling.
"They're inside," Gabriel growled, leveling his pistol toward the hallway.
"Clare," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp command. He reached under the armrest of his titanium chair and pulled out a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol, sliding it across the polished hardwood floor straight toward her feet. "Pick it up."
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Clare stared down at the gun as if it were a venomous snake. "I don't—I don't know how to shoot—"
"You're going to learn right now," Sebastian snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. "Because whoever is walking down that hallway isn't just here for me. They're here to tie up loose ends. And that includes you."
