Chapter 4 - The Midnight Visitor
The storm outside intensified as midnight approached. Wind lashed against the glass of the staff cottage, turning the falling snow into a blinding white blizzard.
Inside her small bedroom, Claire sat awake at the desk, staring at her laptop screen. She hadn't been able to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Sal Marcone’s gravelly voice and Vincent’s chilling, calm response: You're making a war, Vincent. I am ending one.
She was an ordinary woman trapped in a world of monsters. She had escaped one violent man in Detroit only to find herself living under the roof of the most dangerous syndicate boss in Illinois.
We have to leave, she thought, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. Tomorrow morning, I'll pack our bags. We'll take the bus to Chicago, find a shelter, start over—anything is better than waiting for a turf war to erupt on the front lawn.
Suddenly, a heavy, rhythmic thud echoed against the wooden front door of the cottage.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Claire froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
The clock on the wall read 1:15 AM.
Thump.
It wasn't a human knock. It sounded heavy, persistent, and deliberate—like a massive body leaning against the timber frame.
Slowly, silently, Claire stood up from the desk. She crept across the creaking floorboards into the tiny hallway, keeping her footsteps as light as possible so as not to wake Maddie in the next room.
She reached the front door, peering through the small glass peephole into the snowy darkness outside.
At first, she saw nothing except swirling white snow illuminated by the porch light.
Then, a massive black shape shifted out of the shadows.
It was Ranger.
The 150-pound mastiff stood on his hind legs, his massive front paws resting against the wooden door panel, scratching weakly at the wood. His dark coat was crusted with snow and ice, and his head was bowed low.
Claire’s heart hammered against her ribs. She unlocked the deadbolt with trembling fingers and pulled the door open a crack.
"Ranger?" she whispered, staring down at him.
The dog didn't growl. He didn't bare his teeth. Instead, he let out a low, distressed whimper—a sound so human and heartbreaking that it made Claire’s chest ache.
He turned his massive head, looking back toward the dark expanse of the lawn where the service road wound toward the woods.
Then he looked back at Claire, his amber eyes wide with panic. He grabbed the hem of her cardigan gently in his teeth, pulling her forward just an inch.
"What is it, boy?" Claire whispered, stepping out onto the porch despite the biting wind and freezing snow. "What's wrong?"
Ranger immediately dropped the hem of her sweater, turned around, and bolted three steps toward the treeline before stopping to look back, ensuring she was following him.
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Something was terribly wrong at the main house.
Without thinking, Claire grabbed her heavy winter coat from the rack by the door, threw it over her pajamas, slipped her boots onto her bare feet, and ran out into the blinding blizzard after the mastiff.
