Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in the West WingAt 11:20 PM, the second-floor master corridor was deathly still, save for the rhythmic humming of the HVAC vents.
Marco met us outside Camilla Vance’s private guest suite, holding an electronic master keycard and a suppressed submachine gun slung across his tactical vest.
“Her three private guards have been disarmed and secured in the subterranean wine cellar, boss,” Marco reported in a low, flat rasp. “No shots fired. Miss Vance took two sleeping capsules twenty minutes ago.”
Matteo nodded once. “Open the lock.”
The deadbolt retracted with a smooth, oiled click. Matteo pushed the heavy door open, stepping silently into the darkened suite.
Camilla lay sprawled across the king-sized silk duvet, wearing an emerald lace nightgown, her breathing deep and even under the influence of the sedatives. On the vanity across the room sat her designer jewelry boxes, her alligator clutches, and a heavy, fireproof aluminum briefcase.
Matteo didn’t spare his sleeping fiancée a single glance. He walked directly to the vanity, using a small hardened-steel pick from his pocket to pop the dual mechanical latches of the aluminum briefcase.
He lifted the lid.
Inside lay the degaussed magnetic server drive from the security archives, wrapped in an anti-static bag.
Beside it lay an unsealed manila folder containing the forged deed of transfer for the Calumet River container terminal—signed with a forged stamp of Matteo’s personal signature, dated for the day after the wedding.
Matteo pulled the drive from the case.
He turned it over under the lamplight. A small circular burn mark was visible on the casing where Julian Vance had pressed the industrial degaussing magnet against the sector spindle.
“Did he finish wiping it, boss?” Marco asked quietly.
“A degausser of that wattage only corrupts the surface tracks,” Matteo replied, his voice cold as iron. “The deep magnetic platter beneath the primary read-head retains the core bit-level memory. Our forensic engineers in Oak Park will reconstruct every single frame of my brother’s murder within four hours.”
He placed the drive into his coat pocket.
He looked back toward the bed where the woman who had plotted his assassination lay sleeping, completely unaware that her forty-million-dollar empire had collapsed into dust while she slept.
“Double the guards outside this door,” Matteo commanded. “She does not leave this room until her father arrives for breakfast.”
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He turned his gaze onto me, his gray eyes softening into something deep, protective, and unshakeable.
“Come, Maya. Dr. Vance has prepared a room for you in the west wing. You will sleep beneath my roof tonight.”
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