Glass.
The entire back of the house was made of glass. A wall of windows stared out into the black woods and the even blacker lake.
A beautiful deathtrap.
From the outside, it was a masterpiece. From the inside, it was a tactical nightmare. A sniper's dream. Anyone could be out there in the trees, watching.
"I'll take the ground floor bedroom," I said, dropping her bag by the stairs. "You take the master suite upstairs. It has a better view of the road."
She just nodded, looking pale and small in the enormous, modern space. She looked at the glass walls and hugged herself, as if she felt the same thing I did. That we were animals in a zoo, on perfect display.
She went upstairs without a word. I heard her door close softly.
The mission began.
I did a full sweep of the house. I checked every window lock, every door. I checked the pathetic alarm system, which was more for show than for actual security. I walked the perimeter outside, the cold night air sharp in my lungs. My senses were on fire, every snapped twig, every ripple on the lake was a potential threat.
There was nothing. The place was clean. Secure.
A perfect cage.
I went back inside. The house was silent except for one sound.
The faint rush of water.
She was in the shower.
My heart rate kicked up a notch. This was it. My chance. The clock was ticking. Marcos's voice echoed in my head. Find it, Leo. Avenge your father.
I moved up the stairs, my steps silent on the floating wooden treads. Her door was unlocked. A mistake on her part. I slipped inside her room without a sound.
It smelled like her. Vanilla and something floral. I ignored it. It was a distraction.
My search was fast. Efficient. I was looking for anything out of place. A loose floorboard. A hollow spot in the wall. The back of a picture frame.
Nothing.
The desk held a book and a single silver key to a boat house, probably. The drawers held clothes. Under the bed, nothing but empty space.
Frustration, cold and sharp, coiled in my gut. What if the drive wasn't in the mansion? What if Alessandro had moved it? What if he'd brought it here?
My eyes scanned the room again. And then I saw it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, where she must have taken it out of her bag.
The worn teddy bear. Hector.
I'd dismissed it before as a child's toy. Pathetic. But why bring it here? In a rush, packing only the essentials, why bring this?
I picked it up.
It was heavy. Heavier than it should be. I squeezed it. The stuffing was dense, lumpy in one spot near its back.
My mind raced. It couldn't be. It was too stupid, too sentimental. But it was the only thing that felt wrong.
I ran my fingers along the bear's back, feeling for a seam. There. A line of stitching, thicker than the rest. It was sloppy. Not original. It had been opened and sewn shut again.
My blood ran cold. Not with certainty. With a surge of pure, desperate possibility.
This could be it.
I pulled the switchblade from my pocket. The same one I'd held to her throat in the alley. The metal was cold against my palm.
The blade clicked open, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
I held the bear in one hand, the tip of the knife in the other. I was one second away from knowing. One second from finding either the truth, or a handful of useless stuffing. I pressed the blade against the thick thread, ready to slice it open.
CLUNK.
I froze.
The sound wasn't from the shower. It wasn't from me.
It came from downstairs.
A loud, heavy sound. The unmistakable noise of a deadbolt being forced open.
The front door.
We weren't alone.