Chapter 7 - Breaking the Glass
Up on the third floor, the air in the master suite was growing thin.
Damon stood by the heavy oak door, his shoulder pressed against the wood, listening to the faint, mechanical whir of the smart-lock cycling from the outside. He had tried three separate override codes on the interior digital keypad panel; all of them returned an error beep.
System locked. Administrator override engaged.
"Damon?"
He turned around. Maya was standing near the edge of the bed, her amber eyes wide in the dim light. The Warden was already on his feet, his massive body tense, a low, vibrating growl rumbling in his chest as he stared fixedly at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lawn.
"Stay back, Maya," Damon said, keeping his voice level.
"The doors won't open," she stated, as if he hadn't already figured it out.
"No, they won't," Damon replied. He walked over to the mahogany desk near the window, picked up a heavy cast-iron brass lamp, and slammed it against the reinforced glass of the balcony door with every ounce of his strength.
Clang. The lamp bounced off the glass without leaving a single scratch. Impact-resistant, multi-layered ballistic laminate. Julian had installed it three years ago under the guise of "estate security upgrades."
A cold spike of realization hit Damon square in the chest. Julian hadn't upgraded the estate to protect the family. He had upgraded it to turn the master suite into a vault—or a tomb.
Before Damon could swing the lamp a second time, the wall-mounted intercom speaker beside the door crackled to life.
"Damon," Julian’s calm, cultured voice filled the room. "I’d suggest you stop breaking the furniture. It’s antique, and frankly, you won’t be needing it where you're going."
Damon pressed the talk button on the intercom panel, his voice dropping into a register of pure, concentrated venom. "You’ve made a fatal miscalculation, Julian."
"Have I?" Julian’s laugh drifted through the speaker, light and airy. "Damon, look at the monitors. Your guards are secured. Your communications are jammed. By morning, federal marshals will arrive with a warrant for your arrest, based on financial discrepancies in the Castellano trust—discrepancies that your dear departed grandfather left behind, and that you conveniently inherited."
"And the girl?" Damon demanded, his eyes flashing toward Maya, who was standing completely still, watching the speaker.
"The girl is a loose end," Julian said, his tone turning clinical. "Just like her mother. Elena was brilliant, but she was entirely too sentimental. She thought she could hide the original ledgers in a university archive and walk away with a child. People in our line of work don't get to walk away, Damon. You taught me that yourself."
Damon looked down at the heavy iron lamp in his hand. He didn't waste his breath on threats. Men who make threats are usually the ones about to lose.
Instead, he looked at the Warden.
The massive Rottweiler was standing directly in front of the balcony doors, its muscles coiled like braided steel cables, staring through the thick ballistic glass out into the dark night.
"Maya," Damon said softly, his voice cutting through the intercom's hum.
"Yes?" she whispered.
"Tell him to look at me."
Maya didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, placed her small hand on the thick black fur of the dog’s neck, and spoke a single word in a clear, ringing tone.
The Warden’s head snapped around. His amber eyes locked onto Damon’s face.
May you like
Damon didn't give a traditional command. He didn't use the three words he had bought the animal with. He looked straight into the beast's eyes and delivered a single, low instruction in the flat, absolute tone of a man who owned the world.
"Break it."
