Chapter 32
[ 567 words ]
Chapter 32:
In the back seat, Jarrod sat with his eyes closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left thumb and forefinger, trying to ward off the dull, throbbing headache building behind his eyes. His right shoulder, strapped tight under his tailored black overcoat, burned with a steady, grinding ache. The damage from the fall in the hospital stairwell was deep, a constant reminder of the price he’d paid to shield Caroline from the concrete. He shifted slightly, a muted groan catching in his throat as the dislocated joint protested the movement. He hated coming here.
The SUV turned off the main road and glided onto a long, private driveway lined with towering, perfectly manicured hedges. It rolled to a stop in front of a massive, wrought-iron gate.
Two private security contractors, heavily armed and wearing tactical earpieces, immediately stepped out from the guardhouse. They approached the vehicle, their hands resting cautiously near their holstered weapons. They shined a harsh flashlight into the driver’s side window.
Bell lowered the glass just enough to hand over their identification. The guard checked the credentials, glanced into the back seat, and immediately stiffened. He tapped his earpiece, gave a sharp nod, and stepped back.
The heavy iron gates groaned as they slowly parted.
The SUV crawled forward, entering the sprawling grounds of the Romero family estate. The tires crunched over the pristine white gravel, winding past floodlit fountains and acres of flawless lawn, until the vehicle finally stopped in front of the colossal, Victorian-style main house. It was a monument to old money and ruthless power, its dozens of windows glowing with a cold, yellow light against the darkening sky.
Jarrod didn’t wait for Bell to open his door. He pushed it open with his left hand and stepped out.
His long legs hit the gravel. The biting autumn wind immediately whipped the hem of his black overcoat around his knees. He stood there for a second, staring up at the imposing facade of the mansion, a wave of nausea rolling in his gut. This place had never been a home. It was a battlefield.
He walked up the wide, sweeping marble steps. His leather shoes struck the stone with a heavy, rhythmic thud.
Before his hand could touch the brass handle, the massive oak door swung inward.
𝗙оl𝗅оw us 𝗈𝗻 𝘨𝖺l𝗇𝗈𝗏е𝘭s.𝘤𝘰𝗆
Elsa, the estate’s elderly housekeeper, stood in the foyer. She wore a pristine black uniform with a starched white collar. Her face was a mask of practiced neutrality, but her eyes held a flicker of genuine apprehension.
“Good evening, Mr. Jarrod,” Elsa said softly, stepping aside to let him pass.
Jarrod stepped into the cavernous foyer, the scent of lemon polish and expensive floral arrangements instantly assaulting his senses. He unbuttoned his overcoat with his left hand and let it slide off his shoulders. Elsa quickly caught it before it hit the floor.
“The General and Mrs. Romero have been waiting in the main drawing room for quite some time, sir,” Elsa murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jarrod gave a single, curt nod. He didn’t offer an apology. He adjusted the cuff of his dark suit jacket and began to walk down the long, echoing hallway.
The walls were lined with massive, gilded oil portraits of Romero ancestors. Men with hard eyes and women with tight, unsmiling mouths stared down at him. He ignored them all. He walked with the measured, predatory stride of a military commander entering hostile territory.
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