The Weight of a Ringing Screen

The service pantry smelled of dry starch and vinegar. My knuckles throbbed beneath the kitchen gauze I had wound around them hours ago, each pulse of my heartbeat sending a sharp, white-hot sting through my split skin. Outside the louvered door, the Castello estate was completely silent. The grandfather clock in the main foyer had struck midnight ten minutes ago, its deep, resonant chime vibrating through the floorboards and rattling the glass jars of preserved plums on the high shelves.

I eased the pantry latch down. It clicked with a faint, metallic dry snap that made my stomach drop into my shoes. I waited, holding my breath, listening for the heavy tread of security guards or the dry rustle of Dante’s black silk shirt against a doorframe. Nothing moved except the pale square of moonlight cutting across the terracotta tiles of the scullery floor.

I slipped out of the pantry, keeping my back pressed flat against the damp plaster of the corridor wall. My black maid uniform felt too tight across my chest, the starched white lace of my apron catching on a loose nail near the laundry chute. I freed the fabric with a slow, careful tug, wincing as my bandaged hand grazed the rough wood.

My target was the kitchen office, a small, windowless nook tucked behind the walk-in freezers where the estate manager kept the landline and the secondary charging docks. If Leo had managed to find a public payphone or a burner after being cut off, or if he'd sent a text before my phone was stripped from my grip in the hallway, the notification log might still be cached on the local mesh router.

The back stairs were older than the rest of the renovated wing; the oak treads groaned under my socks. I took them one by one, shifting my weight to the very edges where the wood was thickest. Every shadow in the cavernous lower level seemed to stretch and shift. The air grew cooler down here, smelling faintly of bleach, damp stone, and the rich, roasted scent of leftover espresso beans from the evening service.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner into the main kitchen. The stainless-steel prep tables caught the faint amber glow of the pilot lights from the massive commercial range, casting long, metallic reflections across the room.

I froze.

A single overhead pendant light burned low above the center marble island. Sitting on a chrome stool, his dark shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows to reveal the dense, twisting black ink of his arm tattoos, was Dante. He was nursing a small ceramic mug of black coffee. He didn't look up as I stepped out from the shadows of the dry-goods alcove, but the absolute stillness of his posture told me he had known I was there since the second my foot touched the bottom stair.

"The landline in the office is routed directly to my desk," Dante said. His voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of surprise. He took a slow sip of his coffee, the porcelain clicking softly against his teeth as he set the mug down. "And your mobile is sitting right here."

He reached out and slid a black smartphone across the cold marble surface of the island. It stopped two inches from my fingertips. The screen was dark.

"I need to check," I whispered, my throat dry and tight. I didn't move toward the phone. I kept my distance, my fingers curling into the folds of my apron to hide the clumsy white wrapping on my hands. "Just five seconds. To know he's not in a ditch somewhere."

"He's not in a ditch," Dante said, his dark eyes finally lifting to meet mine. There was no anger in them, which somehow made the heavy silence in the room feel even more dangerous. "Not yet. But if you walk out those doors tonight looking for him, you won't just be burying your brother. You'll be digging a hole for yourself right beside him."

He tapped the edge of the mug with a single finger.