Chapter 1 - The Three KnocksDante Moretti remained motionless behind his desk.
The three taps had been faint, almost swallowed by the rain, but he knew what he had heard.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
He reached for the telephone beside his espresso and pressed the security channel.
“Rossi.”
A man answered immediately. “Yes, boss?”
“Where are you?”
“East corridor. Everything's quiet.”
“Did you hear anything unusual?”
A pause followed.
“No, boss. Should I check something?”
Dante stared at the open study door.
“Check the servants' wing. Quietly. Nobody moves through this house without my knowledge tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
He ended the call and stood.
For six years, Dante had learned to distrust anything that seemed harmless. A late delivery. An unfamiliar face. A locked door left open by an inch. Every mistake had a price, and the people who paid it were rarely the ones responsible.
Tonight, however, he wasn't thinking about rival families or the shipment scheduled to arrive before sunrise.
He was thinking about a five-year-old girl in planet-covered pajamas.
And the enormous dog who had followed her out of his study without looking back.
Dante walked into the corridor.
Bruno had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. Ordinarily, the dog wouldn't leave his side unless Dante gave a command. Yet when Sophie had taken his collar, Bruno had risen as though he recognized an order no human had spoken.
That bothered Dante more than he cared to admit.
He reached the servants' staircase and found Rossi waiting at the bottom.
“Nothing unusual, boss,” the guard reported. “The housekeepers are finishing tomorrow's party preparations. Everyone else is in their quarters.”
“Did you check the bedrooms?”
“From the hallway.”
“Check inside.”
Rossi hesitated. “Inside, sir?”
Dante gave him a cold look.
“Do you want me to repeat myself?”
“No, boss.”
The guard hurried away.
Dante climbed the stairs himself.
The servants' wing was different from the polished, carefully lit rooms downstairs. The carpet was thinner, the walls were plain, and the lamps gave off a tired yellow glow. Somewhere behind a closed door, a television murmured. A tap dripped in a shared bathroom.
He stopped outside Sophie's room.
The door was slightly open.
Through the gap, he saw the bed, a small wooden chair, and several drawings taped to the wall. Colored stars floated above uneven houses. One picture showed a little girl holding hands with a black dog so large that its head reached the girl's shoulder.
Bruno lay beside the bed.
Sophie was curled beneath a blanket, one hand resting against his neck. Her star-shaped pillow was tucked under her chin.
For a moment, Dante simply watched.
The girl looked peaceful now.
Bruno did not.
The Cane Corso's head was raised, his ears angled toward the far wall. He stared at the wardrobe, where a thin line of shadow separated its wooden frame from the plaster.
Dante stepped inside.
Bruno's eyes flicked toward him, then returned to the wardrobe.
“What is it?” Dante whispered.
The dog didn't move.
Dante examined the wardrobe. It was old, too large for the room, and probably left behind when the servants' quarters had been renovated. He pulled the door open.
Tiny dresses hung from a rail. Two cardboard boxes sat at the bottom. Nothing else.
He checked behind it and ran his fingers over the wall.
The plaster felt cold.
He was about to turn away when he noticed a narrow scratch near the floor.
It was fresh.
A pale line ran across the dark wooden skirting board, ending in a small crescent-shaped indentation.
Someone had dragged something heavy across the floor.
Dante crouched.
A faint smell reached him. Not perfume. Not cleaning fluid.
Cigarette smoke.
He hadn't allowed smoking anywhere inside his estate for years.
Behind him, Sophie stirred.
“Mr. Dante?”
He turned immediately.
She blinked up at him, then at Bruno.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Is Bruno going home?”
“No.”
She relaxed slightly and touched the dog's ear.
“He heard it again.”
Dante's entire body became still.
“Heard what?”
“The knocking.”
“Tonight?”
Sophie nodded.
“Before you came. Three times.”
“Where did it come from?”
She pointed at the wardrobe.
Dante looked back at the wall.
“When?”
“After Mommy said good night.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.” Sophie hugged her pillow. “But I heard the door open.”
“What door?”
“The little door.”
Dante kept his voice gentle. “Sophie, there isn't a little door here.”
The girl looked at him with the solemn patience of a child correcting an adult who didn't understand something obvious.
“Yes, there is.”
She pointed again.
“It's behind the big door.”
Before Dante could respond, Bruno rose and planted himself between the bed and the wardrobe.
A low growl rolled through his chest.
Sophie stopped breathing for a second.
Dante straightened.
The dog wasn't looking at the boxes, the dresses, or the empty space behind the wardrobe.
He was watching the wall itself.
Then Dante heard it.
A faint metallic scrape.
Something shifted behind the plaster.
His hand moved instinctively toward the pistol beneath his jacket.
“Rossi!” he called into his phone.
The security guard answered at once. “Boss?”
“Lock down the east wing. Nobody leaves the property. Nobody enters the servants' corridor without my permission.”
“What's happening?”
Dante stared at the narrow shadow behind the wardrobe.
“I think someone has been inside my house.”
He ended the call.
Then a voice came through the wall.
A whisper so faint that he almost mistook it for the wind.
“She's awake.”
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Sophie buried her face against Bruno.
And somewhere behind the plaster, a lock clicked.
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