Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Estate
By five in the morning, the rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog that rolled off the Long Island Sound, smothering the manicured lawns of the Vance estate.
Dominic sat in his ground-floor study, a tumbler of black coffee sitting untouched beside a thick dossier. Across the heavy mahogany desk stood Victor, his right-hand man, looking distinctly uncomfortable under the glare of his boss’s eyes.
"Her name is Nora Vance—no relation," Victor said quickly, tapping the folder. "She came recommended through a private agency in Zurich. Former military medic, specializing in trauma recovery and pediatric rehabilitation. Clean record. No family connections to the Moretti family, no ties to the Russians, no record with the FBI."
"She moved through my house like a ghost, Victor," Dominic said coldly. "She didn't flinch when I threatened her. She didn't look at the armed guards on the perimeter. She didn't even look at the surveillance cameras."
"Some people are just tough, Boss," Victor muttered. "She came from an orphanage in Eastern Europe. Raised in combat zones. The agency said she’s off-the-charts competent, but socially cold. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the blurred photo attached to the file. Nora’s eyes looked out from the paper—cool, detached, unreadable.
"Run her prints again," Dominic ordered. "Not through our usual channels. Send them directly to our contact in Interpol. Use a clean server."
"Boss—"
"Do it, Victor."
Before Victor could respond, a low chime echoed through the house's intercom system. Dominic immediately shifted his gaze to the wall monitor displaying the nursery feed.
Nora was already there.
It was 5:58 AM. Two minutes before the time she had predicted Leo would wake up.
Dominic watched the screen in absolute silence. Nora hadn't turned on the overhead lights. She moved in the gray pre-dawn gloom, her movements fluid and unhurried. She didn't reach directly into the crib. Instead, she sat on the floor beside it, resting her back against the oak bars, her head tilted up toward the ceiling.
A few seconds later, Leo stirred. His little legs kicked out, his face scrunching up as his chest prepared for another ear-splitting roar.
Nora didn't panic. She didn't reach in to snatch him up. She simply began to hum.
It wasn't a lullaby. It was a low, resonant, droning sound—almost like a Tibetan singing bowl or the vibration of a heavy engine. It vibrated through the floorboards.
On the camera, Dominic saw Leo’s body relax instantly. The baby turned his head toward the sound, his dark eyes opening. He didn't cry. He just listened.
Dominic stood up from his desk and walked silently down the hallway. He opened the nursery door without knocking.
Nora didn't look up from her spot on the floor. "You walk heavily for a man who lives in a house full of enemies, Mr. Vance."
Dominic stopped. "How did you know it was me?"
"Your left shoe has a worn heel. You limp slightly when you're tired," she said calmly, reaching up to gently lift Leo out of the crib. She cradled the baby against her shoulder, unsupported by fancy pillows or swaddles, just resting him against her collarbone. Leo immediately tucked his head into the crook of her neck. "He’s hungry. Warm four ounces of goat milk formula. Not cow's milk. Cow's milk gives him gas, which is why he was screaming at three in the morning."
Dominic blinked. "The pediatrician said—"
"The pediatrician is paid to give you standardized answers," Nora cut in, standing up with the baby resting effortlessly against her chest. "His stomach is sensitive. His mother's diet before she left probably altered his gut flora. Switch the formula. He’ll stop screaming."
Dominic felt a sudden, sharp prick of suspicion at the mention of his estranged wife. "What do you know about his mother?"
Nora finally looked at him, her gray eyes narrowing slightly. "I know she isn't here. I know her scent isn't on any of his blankets. And I know you smell like whiskey and gunpowder whenever you mention her."
The air in the room instantly turned sub-zero. Dominic took a step forward, his broad frame casting a towering shadow over both her and his son.
"You're walking on thin ice, Nora," he whispered, his voice laced with the cold lethargy of a man who had ordered executions over less.
Nora met his gaze without a single tremor of fear. "Then don't press so hard on the surface, Mr. Vance. Go make the bottle. Your son is waiting."
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For three long seconds, the king of the New York underworld stood in his own nursery, ordered about by a woman whose background was entirely a mystery.
Then, to his own utter shock, Dominic turned on his heel and went to make the milk.
