Chapter 9 - Shadows in the Nursery
By eight o’clock that evening, Blackwood Manor had turned into an impenetrable fortress.
The estate was completely blacked out, save for the motion-sensor floodlights sweeping across the perimeter fencing.
Thirty private security guards patrolled the grounds with assault rifles and attack dogs.
Sloan had departed an hour earlier in a convoy of armored Suburbans, leaving Bishop behind to command the home garrison with strict orders:
No one leaves.
No one enters.
Anyone crossing the outer tree line without biometric authorization was to be shot on sight.
Delphine sat in the corner of a second-floor sitting room, wrapped in a heavy wool shawl.
The silence inside the house was suffocating.
Every creak of the ancient floorboards sounded like an intruder.
Every gust of wind howling through the dark pines sent a spike of adrenaline into her chest.
Mrs. Gable entered the room quietly, carrying a silver tray with hot chamomile tea and fresh butter biscuits.
“You should eat something, Mrs. Marchetti,” the old housekeeper said gently, placing the tray on the mahogany coffee table.
“You need your strength for the little one.”
Delphine looked at the tea, but her stomach was tied in knots.
“I can’t eat, Martha,” Delphine confessed, rubbing her temples.
“The last time Sloan went to ‘handle’ a family betrayal, three warehouses burned down and four men were found in the river.”
Mrs. Gable lowered her eyes, a sad, knowing expression settling over her aged face.
“Mr. Sloan has a dark soul, child,” Mrs. Gable said softly.
“I’ve known him since he was seven years old.”
“His father raised him to be an iron fist.”
“In this world, if you show mercy for half a second, the hyenas tear your throat out.”
“That doesn't make it right,” Delphine argued, her voice raw.
“That doesn't justify turning every problem into a bloodbath.”
“No,” Mrs. Gable agreed, stepping closer to Delphine and offering a warm, withered hand.
“It doesn't make it right.”
“But it is the only reason you and Cora are alive tonight.”
“A gentle man would have buried his sister this morning.”
The words struck Delphine with brutal clarity.
She hated the violence.
She despised the mob culture with every fiber of her being.
Yet she could not deny the horrifying truth:
If Sloan Marchetti were an ordinary, civilized man, Cora would be in a morgue drawer, and Delphine would be dead in a restaurant alley, murdered by Matteo’s cleanup crew to silence the witness.
Mrs. Gable gestured toward the double doors at the end of the east corridor.
“Before he left, Mr. Sloan asked me to show you something,” the housekeeper said.
“He’s been working on it for five months.”
Delphine frowned, curiosity overriding her exhaustion.
She stood up slowly, bracing her lower back with one hand, and followed Mrs. Gable down the quiet hall.
They stopped before a carved white door that Delphine had never noticed before.
Mrs. Gable pushed the door open, stepping aside.
Delphine stepped over the threshold into the room.
The breath caught in her throat.
It was a nursery.
A vast, breathtaking nursery flooded with warm, golden ambient lighting.
The walls were painted a soft, soothing sage green, accented by hand-carved white wainscoting.
In the center of the room stood an exquisite crib crafted from solid light oak, fitted with organic cotton bedding and silk ribbons.
A comfortable velvet rocking chair sat beside a crackling marble fireplace.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with classic children’s storybooks, vintage wooden toys, and soft plush animals.
A hand-painted mural of an enchanted forest stretched across the ceiling, featuring stars that glowed with faint, bioluminescent paint.
Delphine walked slowly toward the crib, her fingers trembling as she touched the smooth, polished wood.
Beside the crib was a small, hand-carved wooden plaque.
Delphine leaned down to read the carved letters:
‘For our child. A safe haven in a cruel world.’
The date carved beneath the inscription was four months ago.
Long before Sloan had tracked her down to the restaurant.
Long before he even knew she was carrying his baby.
He had built this room while she was still a ghost.
He had prepared a sanctuary for a child he wasn't even certain existed, driven by the desperate hope that she would one day return.
A heavy tear broke from Delphine’s eyelashes, splashing onto the polished railing of the crib.
A sudden, violent explosion shattered the quiet night.
The floorboards shook violently beneath Delphine’s feet.
A deep, thundering boom echoed from the south perimeter of the estate, followed immediately by the sharp, terrifying crackle of automatic gunfire.
The lights inside the nursery flickered violently and died, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness.
Red emergency backup lights hummed to life along the baseboards, casting ominous crimson shadows across the walls.
Mrs. Gable gasped, stumbling against the doorframe.
“Dear God!”
Sirens began wailing across the grounds, high-pitched and deafening.
The heavy door of the nursery was kicked open.
Bishop burst into the room, holding an assault rifle across his chest, his face illuminated by the pulsing red emergency lights.
“Mrs. Marchetti! Move now!” Bishop barked, his voice filled with urgent adrenaline.
“What’s happening?” Delphine cried out, shielding her stomach with both arms.
“A decoy car bomb breached the south security gate!” Bishop reported, grabbing Delphine by the elbow to guide her out into the hallway.
“Two assault teams with night vision are moving through the lower gardens!”
“Matteo didn't stay at his estate!”
“He knew Sloan was coming for him, so he sent his death squad straight here to take the manor while Sloan was away!”
Gunfire erupted directly below them on the ground floor.
The terrifying sound of shattering glass, splintering oak doors, and dying screams tore through the mansion.
Delphine’s heart pounded violently against her ribs.
The nightmare had reached the threshold.
Matteo wasn't just trying to kill Cora.
He was here to slaughter everyone inside Blackwood Manor before Sloan could return.
“Where is Cora?” Delphine demanded, refusing to move until she knew.
“Guards are moving her to the sub-basement panic vault right now!” Bishop said, dragging her toward the hidden service stairs.
“You are coming with me!”
Before they could reach the stairwell, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor blew inward with a deafening blast of wood splinters and smoke.
Three men in black tactical gear and Kevlar vests stepped through the haze, laser sights cutting through the red emergency lights.
Bishop shoved Delphine behind an antique marble pillar.
“Down! Stay down!” Bishop roared.
Bishop stepped out into the open hallway, his rifle barking in sharp, disciplined three-round bursts.
The first intruder collapsed backward with a ragged scream, his rifle clattering across the hardwood floor.
The other two mercenaries opened fire simultaneously.
Bullets tore through the plaster walls, shredding antique oil paintings and shattering crystal sconces into flying shrapnel.
Bishop grunted in pain, stumbling back behind the pillar.
A dark crimson stain blossomed across his left shoulder, blood soaking through his tactical vest.
“Bishop!” Delphine cried out, her nurse instincts flaring despite the terrifying danger.
“I’m fine!” Bishop hissed through clenched teeth, leaning out to fire another burst down the corridor.
One of the remaining mercenaries dropped, shot through the throat.
The last mercenary ducked into a doorway, his laser sight dancing across the floor, inching closer and closer to their hiding spot.
Bishop’s rifle clicked dry.
Empty.
He reached for his sidearm with his bloody left hand, but the severe muscle trauma caused his fingers to slip.
The heavy semi-automatic pistol fell from his grip, sliding across the slick, polished floorboards toward the center of the hallway.
The remaining mercenary stepped out from the doorway, raising his shotgun directly toward the marble pillar.
“End of the line, Marchetti guard dog,” the hitman snarled beneath his balaclava.
Delphine’s mind went blank with primal terror.
Behind the pillar, she was trapped.
Her unborn child kicked violently against her ribs, as if screaming for survival.
She looked at the floor near her feet.
A heavy, solid brass antique candlestick lay in the rubble of a shattered console table.
She didn't think.
She didn't hesitate.
As the mercenary took a heavy step forward to round the corner and execute Bishop, Delphine lunged out from behind the pillar with every ounce of strength in her pregnant body.
She swung the heavy brass candlestick like a club, slamming the solid base directly into the side of the mercenary’s knee joint.
A sickening crunch of shattering cartilage echoed over the ringing in their ears.
The hitman let out an agonizing howl of pain, his leg buckling outward at a grotesque angle.
He crashed heavily to the floor, dropping his shotgun.
Bishop didn't waste half a second.
He threw his entire bulk onto the fallen hitman, driving an eight-inch combat knife straight through the man’s throat.
The mercenary convulsed once, his eyes rolling back, before going completely limp in a pool of dark arterial blood.
Delphine collapsed back against the wall, dropping the bloody brass candlestick onto the floor.
Her breath came in ragged, wheezing sobs.
Her hands were shaking violently.
She had never struck another human being in her entire life.
She was a nurse.
Her hands were meant to heal, to stitch, to preserve life.
Now, she was covered in soot, sweat, and the blood of an assassin who had come to slaughter her unborn baby.
Bishop pulled his knife free with a wet squelch, wiping the blade on the dead man’s jacket.
He looked over at Delphine, his face pale from blood loss, his eyes filled with profound shock and newfound respect.
“Nice swing, Mrs. Marchetti,” Bishop panted, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Before Delphine could answer, the roar of multiple high-powered engines shook the exterior of the house.
Tires screeched violently across the gravel driveway.
Heavy front doors crashed open on the ground floor.
A voice, dark, thunderous, and shaking with apocalyptic fury, echoed up the grand staircase:
May you like
“DELPHINE!”
Sloan was back.
