The corridors of the Rivera estate were quiet except for the faint hum of the security cameras and the occasional distant clink of dishes being put away in the kitchen. Damien’s boots barely made a sound on the polished wooden floor as he moved toward the staff quarters. His jaw was tight, his mind replaying every fragment of the ambush. Luke was still unconscious upstairs, his chest bandaged and pale. The image of his cousin lying in his own blood was burned into Damien’s memory like a brand.
Analyn, the head maid who had been with the family since Damien was a boy, was organizing linens in the laundry room when he found her. The gray strands in her hair glimmered under the fluorescent lights, and though she had aged, her posture remained straight, her eyes sharp. She looked up and smile
