Page 96 of Rage
Cool air rushes into the cabin, carrying the scent of pine, rain-soaked earth, and cedar smoke from somewhere deeper within the estate. He steps out. Only then does another man open my door.
Broad shoulders beneath an immaculate black suit. An earpiece curls behind one ear. A scar disappears beneath his collar.
He bows his head. “Welcome home, signore.”
I don’t respond.
I’m busy taking it all in as I step onto polished black stone. The estate is quiet. No conversation. Only the distant rush of water from fountains hidden throughout the grounds.
The line of men and women waiting beneath the portico remains perfectly still. There are at least fifty of them. Maybe house staff and security.
Every pair of eyes follows me. The kind of respect that doesn’t need permission.
An older woman standing near the entrance suddenly raises a trembling hand to her mouth. I watch as tears fill her eyes. “Oh...” Her voice breaks. “He has her eyes.”
Matteo notices me watching. I wish I could say something, but I don’t know these people.
“They knew your mother.” Something twists inside my chest.
The front doors open before anyone touches them. They are solid imported wood nearly twenty feet high. Each is carved with wolves running through a forest beneath seven crowns.
The craftsmanship appears centuries old. The hinges never make a sound.
Warm light spills across the stone as I step inside. The foyer steals whatever impression I had left. Black-and-white marble stretches in every direction, polished so perfectly it reflects the vaulted ceiling above. Massive arches disappear into adjoining wings. A grand staircase rises from the center of the hall before dividing into two sweeping curves beneath an oversized chandelier of hand-blown crystal.
Every wall tells a story. Oil paintings. Armor. Ancient maps. Portraits of men and women who look less like politicians and more like rulers. Some wear crowns. Others wear military uniforms or tailored suits, standing beside presidents whose faces I recognize from history books.
The same wolf crest appears somewhere in every portrait. I notice a signature ring.
“This way.” Matteo doesn’t raise his voice.
We walk through room after room lined with dark walnut and museum-quality art. A faded photograph of men in military uniforms shaking hands with someone whose face has been intentionally obscured.
“You expected drugs,” Matteo says from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. “What?”
“When people hear words like ours...” He smiles faintly. “They imagine street corners.”
His eyes drift over the gallery. “Our wars have always been fought in boardrooms, parliaments, banks... and occasionally on battlefields.” He continues walking. “The newspapers write about governments.” He looks back at me. “They rarely write about the families standing behind them.”
The room ends beneath another pair of doors. Steel wrapped in walnut with no visible handles.
Two men stand guard, each about six feet tall, wearing charcoal suits cut so perfectly they almost resemble uniforms. What I notice is that neither carries a visible weapon.
The men are highly trained. The one on the left places his hand against a hidden scanner.
A soft chime sounds. The doors separate silently. Beyond them...
A library. Three stories of shelves disappear into shadow. Rolling ladders stretch toward balconies circling the room. A fire burns low inside a stone hearth large enough to stand inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the valley below, where thousands of lights shimmer beneath.
A man stands with his back to us, perfectly still, his hands clasped behind him. Broad enough that for one impossible second... I think I’m looking into a mirror twenty-five years from now. The resemblance is obvious.
His suit fits like it were sewn onto him. He has the same textured hair as mine, dark hair threaded but with silver streaks that rest neatly at his collar.
Matteo stops at the threshold. “So many men spent eighteen years searching for the heir to House Devereaux.”
The figure at the window doesn’t move.
