Chapter 5 - Gatehouse Visitors
The low chime of the security gate intercom reverberated through the stone hallways of Isabetta's estate, stripping the evening quiet away in a single metallic note. Rafael didn't hesitate. He crossed the library threshold in two long strides, his dark shirt sleeves rolled past his forearms, exposing the faded ink of his tattoos as he reached the wall-mounted console by the heavy oak doors. I pressed myself back against the cool plaster of the hallway, my fingers instinctively checking the hidden weight of the ledger tucked securely into my waistband. Every breath pulled at the bandages binding my ribs, but the sharp sting was nothing compared to the cold dread settling in my stomach.
"Hold the gate," Rafael commanded into the speaker, his voice flat, steady, and stripped of all warmth.
A burst of static hissed from the metal grille before a gravelly voice cut through the hum. "County sheriff's department, Deputy Miller. We got an anonymous tip about a late-model black SUV matching a vehicle reported near the county line clinic earlier today. Open the gates, Mr. Vance, or we bring the warrant out."
Rafael's gaze flicked back toward me down the dim corridor. His eyes were dark, calculating, and entirely unreadable in the failing golden light spilling through the high arched windows. He didn't blink. He knew as well as I did that no anonymous tip should have reached the estate gate this fast unless someone inside the local precinct—or inside this very house—was feeding coordinates directly to the authorities. The black SUV was parked just around the side of the stone mansion, tucked behind the paved drive where the shadows were deepest. If the deputies stepped past the stone pillars, they would find fresh tire tracks and dried blood on the passenger-side door handle.
"We have no vehicle matching that description on the property, Deputy," Rafael replied smoothly, his thumb pressing the intercom toggle. "The estate is private. If you have a signed judicial warrant from a district judge, bring it to the front portico through proper channels. Otherwise, turn your cruiser around."
"Don't play games with me, Rafael," the deputy snapped back over the line, his tone hardening. "We saw the dust kicked up on the private access road twenty minutes ago. Open the damn gate."
Rafael released the toggle. He looked at me, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Get to the service stairs behind the pantry," he whispered, stepping closer so his voice wouldn't carry through the foyer. "If they breach the gate, take the back road toward the stables. Don't stop for anything."
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"I'm not leaving you here to take the fall for a vehicle that hauled me out of a shootout," I hissed back, my voice tight with strain.
"That's not an invitation, Wren. That's a perimeter order," he murmured, his hand briefly touching my uninjured shoulder, his fingers warm and calloused against the fabric of my scrub shirt. Before I could argue, heavy metallic clanks echoed from the front gates as the hydraulic locks ground against their housings. The deputies weren't waiting for a warrant anymore. Rafael spun on his heel, striding toward the main foyer to meet them, leaving me alone in the shadow of the stone archway with the evidence of a conspiracy burning against my skin.
