Chapter 6 - The Breach
The alarms did not wail. In the Duca estate, alarms were silent pulses of red light that flashed along the floorboards, designed not to alert intruders that they had been detected.
Becca sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, her heart slamming against her teeth. She burst into the nursery.
The red emergency lights cast long, bloody shadows across the room. The triplets were already awake, sitting bolt upright in the center bed. They weren't crying. They weren't screaming. They had locked arms, forming their triangle, their eyes wide and glassy with familiar, paralyzing horror.
"Becca," Stella whispered.
It was the first time any of them had spoken her name.
Becca locked the heavy double doors, throwing the heavy brass deadbolt. She dragged an oak chest in front of the handle, then ran to the bed and gathered all three girls into her arms.
"I’m here," Becca said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "I’m right here. Look at me. Don't look at the lights. Look at my eyes."
Muffled thuds echoed from downstairs—not the loud bangs of Hollywood shootouts, but the rhythmic, suppressed *thwip-thwip-thwip* of silenced automatic weapons, followed by the heavy crash of falling bodies.
Nova buried her face in Becca’s neck. "The bad men are back. They want to kill the triangle."
"No one is killing anything," Becca fiercely whispered, wrapping her coat around their trembling shoulders. "Your father is down there. Mateo is down there. You are safe."
"Papa is red," Luna said, her small voice steadying, taking on an eerie calm. "Papa will die like Mama."
"No, Luna! Listen to me!" Becca pulled Luna’s chin up, forcing the child to meet her gaze. "Your mother died because she was trapped. Your father is a dragon. Do you hear me? Dragons don't die. He is protecting his home."
Footsteps pounded outside in the hallway. Heavy, tactical boots.
Becca froze.
The footsteps stopped outside the double doors. The brass handle rattled once. Twice. Then came the sound of something metallic being slotted into the lock mechanism.
*It wasn't Valentino.* Valentino didn't need to pick his own doors.
Becca looked around desperately. The room had no other exits—except the laundry chute in the corner, too small for her, but large enough for three six-year-olds.
"Listen to me," Becca whispered, her voice dropping to an urgent rasp. "Luna, Stella, Nova. You go into the chute. It slides down into the laundry cellar. It’s padded with linens. You slide down, you hide under the sheets, and you stay silent. Understand?"
"No," Stella cried, clutching Becca’s sleeve. "We have to stay together! With you!"
"I am the fourth point," Becca said, tears stinging her eyes as she pried Stella’s fingers loose. "I am making the triangle a square. The square holds the door. Go!"
She scooped Nova up and shoved her into the metal chute. Nova slid down without a sound. Stella went next, her eyes filled with terror.
Luna stood before the chute, refusing to climb in.
"Luna, please!" Becca begged.
"You don't have a gun," the little girl said plainly. "Mama didn't have a gun either."
A deafening *BANG* blew the lock off the nursery door. The wood splintered outward, throwing the heavy oak chest across the floor.
Becca grabbed Luna and shoved her into the chute just as the doors were kicked open.
A man dressed in black tactical gear, wearing a ballistic mask, stepped into the nursery. The barrel of an MP5 pointed directly at Becca’s chest.
"Where are the Duca brats?" the man growled through the mask, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent.
Becca stood up slowly, her hands raised, placing her body squarely between the gunman and the laundry chute.
"There's no one here," she said, her voice deathly calm. "Just me."
The gunman stepped forward, raising his weapon to strike her with the stock. "Lie to me again, and I paint the wall with your—"
He never finished the sentence.
A hand clad in black leather reached from the shadows of the corridor behind him, clamping onto the man's throat like an iron vice. A flash of silver steel flickered in the red light.
With a sickening, wet crunch, the intruder’s body went limp, collapsing to the carpet.
Valentino stood in the doorway. His face was splattered with crimson. His eyes were wide, black, feral—the eyes of a demon emerging from the underworld. In his right hand, he held a combat knife; in his left, his smoking .45.
He looked at Becca. He looked at the empty room.
"Where are they?" he roared, his voice tearing from his chest like thunder.
"They're safe," Becca gasped, collapsing against the wall as adrenaline drained from her limbs. "In the laundry chute. They're safe, Valentino."
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The gun dropped from Valentino’s hand, clattering against the floor. He crossed the room in two strides, dropped to his knees, and pulled Becca into his blood-stained chest, his body shaking with violent, ragged sobs.
***
