Chapter 8: Outsmarting Security
The beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight swept across the metal cabinets, cutting through the darkness of the archive room like a blade. We pressed ourselves flat against the cold steel shelves, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain the intruder could hear it. I clamped a hand over my mouth, my fingers brushing against the silver necklace tucked safely inside the collar of my maid's dress.
“I could have sworn I heard a latch click,” a gravelly voice muttered from near the entrance. It was Harris, the head of estate security—a man whose polite, grandfatherly demeanor during morning breakfast service masked a ruthless dedication to the DeLuca family's survival.
I risked a sideways glance around the edge of the shelving unit. Harris stood near the door, his hand resting casually on the holster of his belt. His eyes scanned the floorboards, lingering for a fraction of a second on the subtle scuff marks Luca and I had left in the dust.
Luca didn't flinch. He stood half a step in front of me, his posture completely rigid, his hand sliding quietly into his tuxedo jacket. He wasn't reaching for a weapon; he was reaching for his comms device, ready to disable the security network's local relay before Harris could radio for backup.
“You’re losing your hearing in your old age, Harris,” Luca said suddenly, his voice ringing out with cool, effortless authority as he stepped calmly out from the shadows into the flashlight beam.
Harris froze, his hand pulling away from his holster as he recognized the tall, imposing silhouette of his employer. The older man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, though he quickly masked it with a stiff, professional posture.
“Mr. DeLuca,” Harris said, dipping his head respectfully. “I wasn't aware you were inspecting the sub-basement archives tonight. The gala is still underway upstairs.”
“I’m well aware of where the gala is,” Luca replied smoothly, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He kept his tone completely level, giving away none of the tension that had filled the room moments before. “The air conditioning unit in the north wing has been fluctuating. I wanted to check the primary dampening logs myself. You can return to your post, Harris. I’ll lock up when I’m finished.”
Harris hesitated, his gaze darting past Luca toward the darkened rows of filing cabinets where I still stood hidden in the shadows. For a terrifying second, I thought he would push past Luca to inspect the aisles. But the ingrained habit of obedience—and the sheer intimidation of Luca’s intense, unblinking gaze—won out.
“Understood, sir,” Harris murmured, turning slowly toward the door. “Let me know if you require the master keycard for the outer sector.”
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“Won’t be necessary,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a quiet warning. “Goodnight, Harris.”
As the heavy oak door finally clicked shut behind the security chief, I let out a long, shuddering breath, sliding down the metal shelving until my knees hit the concrete floor. Luca turned back to me, offering a steady hand to help me up.
