His curvy housekeeper slept outside his bedroom every night, and the reason made the mafia boss forget how to breathe.

Midnight came and went. The nor'easter made landfall with catastrophic fury, tearing branches from the ancient oaks on the lawn and throwing torrential rain against the mansion’s stained-glass transoms.

At 1:45 A.M., the low rumble of a V12 engine vibrated through the foundation of the house. Adrian had returned.

Claire watched from the shadowed recess of the third-floor landing as Adrian climbed the stairs. He was alone, his overcoat damp, his face etched with bone-deep exhaustion. He did not look left or right; he entered his private fourth-floor corridor, tapped the numeric sequence into the electronic deadbolt of his suite, and the heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind him.

Thirty minutes later, the house plunged into darkness as the main grid flickered, followed immediately by the hum of the backup diesel generators.

Claire slipped out of her room in the staff annex.

She was barefoot. Her shoes made too much noise on the parquet, and silence was her only advantage. She wore her faded grey flannel pajamas, loose and worn soft, and she had wrapped an old green wool blanket around her shoulders to ward off the frigid drafts cutting through the marble halls.

She crept into the formal second-floor drawing room. The fireplace was cold, its ashes damp from the chimney draft. Resting against the carved marble hearth was a set of heavy, solid-brass tools.

Claire picked up the poker.

It was nearly three feet long, topped with an ornate cast-brass eagle head, and weighed nearly eight pounds. It was cold in her hands, heavy and brutal.

She climbed the narrow servants' stairwell, avoiding the creaking seventh step she had cataloged months ago, until she emerged onto the fourth-floor landing directly outside Adrian Moretti’s master bedroom.

The corridor was pitch black, lit only by the intermittent strobe of lightning through the arched window at the far end.

The floor was polished white Carrara marble. It was freezing against her bare soles.

Claire did not knock. She did not dare try the handle. If she knocked, Adrian would draw his weapon, find her there, and likely order her back to the annex where she would be helpless if Dean’s men bypassed the outer perimeter.

Instead, she sat down on the floor.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping the wool blanket tight around her thighs. She placed the brass poker across her lap, her fingers curling around the cold metal grip.

She pressed her back against the doorjamb, right where the wood met the stone frame. If anyone approached from the stairwell or the terrace corridor, they would have to step over her to reach his door.

She was terrified. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. Every shadow cast by the windblown branches against the window looked like Dean Russo holding a silenced pistol.

*If they come,* Claire thought, her eyes wide and burning with unshed tears, *they will have to kill me first. And the noise will wake him.*

Two o’clock passed.

Two-thirty.

Three o’clock.

The grandfather clock in the distant gallery chimed three low, resonant notes. Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gripped the brass poker until her knuckles turned white. Her legs were completely numb from the frozen stone, and her lower back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

The house creaked. The wind screamed outside, hurling rain against the glass like handfuls of buckshot.

3:15 A.M.