“All of them.” I straighten my tie. “Running facial recognition?”
“Started when we turned onto the drive. No matches yet.”
The gate swings open with a mechanical whine. Marcus guides the car forward, but his usual smooth acceleration is absent. He’s keeping space and maintaining options. The gravel drive crunches under our tires, each turn taking us deeper into the estate’s shadows.
“Sir,” Marcus’s voice drops lower. “We can still—”
“No,” I cut him off, though his concern mirrors the warning bells in my head. “We play this through.”
The manor looms ahead, its windows gleaming like predator’s eyes in the rain. I’ve walked into danger countless times, but tonight feels different. Every instinct honed over decades screams: trap.
The front doors open, and I step out into the rain. Marcus appears at my side, umbrella raised with military precision. His body angles slightly in front of mine—another break from protocol that speaks volumes.
“Gentlemen.” Gerard, Montoni’s head butler for twenty years, meets us at the entrance. His usual polish seems strained tonight. “Mr. Montoni is expecting you in his study.”
I scan the foyer as we enter, cataloging changes since my last visit. Two new security cameras in the corners, recently installed judging by the fresh paint around their mounts. The marble floor reflects our footsteps, each click echoing off ancestral portraits that line the walls.
My gaze catches on a particular painting—a young girl with Eve’s eyes staring back at me. The weight of what happened in these halls settles like ice in my veins.
“Quite the upgrade to security,” I comment, noting a guard stationed by the grand staircase. His stance is too rigid, hands positioned for a quick draw.
Gerard’s smile tightens. “Recent improvements, sir. Mr. Montoni values his privacy.”
“Among other things.” The words slip out before I can catch them, earning a sharp look from Marcus.
We turn down the east wing, where heavy curtains block most of the evening light. What filters through the bulletproof windows creates distorted shadows across Persian rugs. I count four more cameras, three visible guards and estimate at least two more out of sight, based on the floor plan I memorized years ago.
“Sir,” Marcus murmurs, so low only I can hear. “The third door on the left is usually clear. Service stairs beyond.”
I give him the barest nod. The fact that he’s feeding me escape routes—something we haven’t done since my early days—confirms we’re both reading the same warnings in this situation.
“Mr. Montoni apologizes for the late hour,” Gerard says, stopping before the study doors. “He insisted the matter couldn’t wait until morning.”
“Of course.” I straighten my cuffs, a habit that helps me focus. “Matters of family rarely do.”
Gerard flinches at the word “family.” Interesting.
He opens the study doors and the scent of cigars and leather washes over me. I step inside, hyperaware of Marcus positioning himself exactly two steps behind me—close enough to react, far enough not to crowd.
The study feels different now, knowing what Liv endured here. Every leather-bound book and crystal decanter speaks of carefully maintained appearances hiding rot beneath. Even the placement of Montoni’s desk, positioned to dominate the room, reveals the man’s need for control over his domain.
Montoni rises from his leather chair, a practiced smile stretching across his weathered face. “Remy. Thank you for coming at such a late hour.”
“Your invitation seemed urgent.” I settle into one of the leather chairs across from his desk, noting how the study’s dim lighting casts shadows across the room’s dark wood paneling. Marcus remains by the door, a silent sentinel.
“Urgent? Perhaps.” Montoni picks up the crystal decanter. “Scotch?”
“Please.” I watch him pour, studying the steady movement of his hands. No tremor, no hesitation. He’s either truly at ease or exceptionally skilled at appearing so.
“I wanted to personally thank you for handling that… delicate matter we discussed.” He hands me the glass, his signet ring catching the light. “The evidence you provided was quite thorough.”
“I’m nothing if not meticulous.” I take a measured sip, letting the smoky liquid coat my tongue. “The photos, the blood work, the death certificate—all properly documented and filed.”
“Indeed.” He returns to his chair, leather creaking beneath his weight. “Tell me, did she suffer?”
The question hangs between us. I maintain eye contact, remembering the carefully staged photos of Eve’s “execution.” “It was quick, clean. Professional, as requested.”
“Hmm.” He picks up a folder from his desk, aged leather embossed with the Montoni family crest. “You know, I’ve always admired your attention to detail, Remy. The way you construct your deceptions. Layer upon layer of carefully crafted evidence.”
