And the moment I left California — the first time in eight years — they moved.
Calculated timing.
Perfect execution.
My jaw tightened.
They didn’t attack because they were brave.
They attacked because they had planned.
I lifted Daphne higher into my arms and stood.
She clung to me instantly — burying her face into my neck, small hands gripping my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in her world.
I walked through the house slowly.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It was aftermath.
It was survival.
It was proof that violence had already passed through here and left destruction behind.
Petros was nowhere to be seen.
Neither were the remaining staff.
Only blood.
Only overturned furniture.
Only broken pieces of what had once been normal.
I carried Daphne upstairs first.
Past shattered vases.
Past bullet holes in the walls.
Past a banister smeared with blood where someone had tried to steady themselves.
Our bedroom door hung halfway off its hinges.
Inside —
The Moses basket stood in the corner.
Empty.
My chest tightened violently.
The sheets were rumpled.
As if someone had searched for something beneath them.
