Chapter 11 - The Shadow on the Monitor
Three days later, the DeMarco coastal estate was shrouded in an eerie, peaceful fog rolling off the Atlantic.
The grand ballroom had been gutted, the stained marble replaced, the broken crystal swept away as if the nightmare of the gala had never happened. Elena sat in the sunroom of the private east wing, dressed in a soft cashmere sweater, nursing little Thomas by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grey ocean.
Rocco stood by the door, dressed in his customary black suit, his sharp eyes scanning the manicured lawns. The threat had been eradicated. Julian was at the bottom of a river gorge; Victoria was locked away in an ocean fortress; the disloyal board members were being systematically purged by the Patriarch’s legal sharks.
Peace had returned to the house of DeMarco.
Or so they believed.
Elena looked up at Rocco with a warm, intimate smile. "You haven't slept in seventy-two hours, Rocco. Maya said the security grid is fully restored. Go rest."
"My shift ends when I know you’re safe, Elena," Rocco replied, a small, rare smile breaking his stoic face. "I’m fine."
"Come here," she commanded softly.
Rocco hesitated, then walked over to the edge of the chair. Elena took his rough, scarred hand in hers, placing his palm gently against the warm back of her newborn son.
"He knows your heartbeat as well as mine," Elena whispered, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude and something much deeper—a bond forged in blood and survival. "You gave him life, Rocco. We owe you everything."
Before Rocco could answer, the electronic nursery monitor sitting on the side table crackled with static.
Rocco’s instincts flared immediately. The nursery was empty; Thomas was right here in Elena’s arms. The monitors were on an isolated, encrypted closed circuit. There should have been no signal.
*Kssshhh... click.*
A mechanical breathing sound came through the small speaker. Slow. Deliberate.
Elena froze, her hand gripping Rocco’s fingers tightly. "Rocco... what is that?"
Rocco drew his sidearm with lightning speed, stepping between Elena and the open terrace doors. He tapped his earpiece. "Command, who is in the third-floor nursery? Confirm identity."
Nothing came through the comms except dead static.
Then, from the small speaker of the baby monitor, a distorted voice spoke—not through a phone line, but from inside the estate walls.
*"You buried the wrong brother, Rocco."*
Elena gasped, the color completely draining from her face as she clutched the baby to her chest.
Rocco’s blood ran ice cold. That voice. The cadence, the rasp, the unmistakable intonation.
It was Thomas.
The husband who supposedly burned to ashes in the helicopter eleven months ago.
May you like
Suddenly, every light across the entire estate turned blindingly red. The heavy steel blast shutters began to slam down over the panoramic ocean windows, sealing Elena, Rocco, and the newborn baby inside a fortress that was no longer under their control.
And then, the sound of slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the locked hallway just outside the door.
