Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Highway
Clara’s mind raced in a frantic, desperate panic.
Julian.
Why was Julian looking for Sophia in the middle of an armed assault? Why wasn't he leading the defense with Dante? Why wasn't he drawing fire or securing the perimeter?
The pieces clicked together in Clara’s head with horrifying, blinding clarity.
The breached security grid. The precise timing of the power failure. The way the unknown mercenaries knew exactly which terrace door to shatter.
It wasn't an outside hit. It was an inside job.
Julian wasn't searching for Sophia to rescue her. He was hunting her.
“Come on, princess,” Julian’s voice purred closer, the leather of his shoes squeaking softly as he knelt down beside the edge of the heavy oak table.
The flashlight beam bounced wildly against the floorboards, casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
Sophia buried her face deeper into Clara’s neck, her small fingernails digging so hard and deep into Clara’s arm that Clara felt the sharp sting of skin breaking through her sweater. But Clara didn't make a sound. She didn't flinch. She just tightened her grip, shielding the child with her own body.
“I know you’re under there,” Julian murmured, his tone dropping into a low, sickeningly sweet cadence that sounded less like an uncle and more like a predator coaxing a lamb from the brush. “You and that little waitress. Such a shame she wandered into a war zone that doesn't concern her.”
Julian’s hand entered the circle of darkness beneath the table.
A manicured hand, skin pale and unblemished, holding a heavy, silenced pistol by the barrel while his other hand reached out to grasp the edge of the dark velvet tablecloth.
“Uncle Julian is here,” Julian whispered, his voice tilting into a dark, triumphant cadence.
Then he added a phrase that made Clara’s blood run colder than the rain outside:
“Just like the last time.”
The last time.
The highway. The crash. The burning wreckage.
Julian hadn't pulled Sophia from the burning car as a savior. Julian had put them there. Julian had orchestrated the crash three years ago to eliminate Dante’s primary line of succession, and Sophia had seen it. Sophia had witnessed her uncle commit the ultimate betrayal on that dark, rainy interstate, and the horror of that realization was what had stolen her voice.
She hadn't been mute because of grief. She had been mute because she was terrified that if she spoke, Julian would finish what he started.
The tablecloth suddenly lifted.
The harsh white beam of the flashlight blinded them both as Julian yanked the heavy fabric upward, exposing their hiding spot.
Clara didn't think. Survival instinct—forged from years of fighting for her own survival on the city streets—took over every fiber of her being.
With a explosive surge of adrenaline, Clara lunged forward from beneath the table. Her hands gripped a heavy silver serving tray that had rolled off the sideboard during the gunfire. With all the force she could muster, Clara swung the solid metal tray downward, slamming it with a deafening CRASH directly into Julian’s shins and knees.
Julian let out a sharp, surprised grunt of pain, his balance buckling as he stumbled backward.
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“Run!” Clara screamed at the top of her lungs.
She grabbed Sophia’s small, ice-cold hand in an iron grip, hauled the little girl to her feet, and bolted out from beneath the table.
