Chapter 4 - THE COUNTER-ATTACK
The morning sun cast long, golden shadows across the limestone courtyard as I walked into the kitchen. True to his word, Marcus had looped the security feed for the west wing, freezing the hallway monitors on a ten-minute playback loop.
I prepared a tray with warm broth and toast, adding a neutral, harmless electrolyte powder to the broth—something to keep Santiago hydrated while we made our move.
When I entered the twins' bedroom, Santiago was propped up against the pillows, staring blankly out the sealed window. His skin had a translucent, sickly pallor, and his small hands trembled as he tried to pull the blanket higher.
“Good morning, Santiago,” I said softly, forcing a bright, reassuring smile.
“Where’s Nicholas?” he asked, his voice cracking. “And Dad? They left last night and didn't come back.”
“They’re at the hospital making sure Nicholas gets completely better,” I said, sitting on the edge of his bed and gently taking his cold hand. “And today, sweetheart, you’re going to visit them, too.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Dr. Hale said I’m not allowed to leave my room. He said the outside air will make my lungs collapse.”
“Dr. Hale is wrong,” a voice rumbled from the doorway.
Marcus stepped into the room, dressed in his dark security uniform, holding a large duffel bag. Behind him stood Mrs. Gable, carrying a set of civilian clothes.
“We’re going for a ride, buddy,” Marcus said, offering a rare, gentle smile. “Your dad is waiting for us at the hospital.”
Before Santiago could answer, Mrs. Gable gently stripped off his hospital gown and helped him into a warm sweater, jeans, and a baseball cap that completely shadowed his pale face. I wrapped him in a heavy woolen blanket.
“If Roger calls or checks the cameras—” I began.
“He won't see a thing,” Marcus interrupted, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder. “I rerouted the front gate logs. He thinks everything is normal.”
We moved quickly down the service stairs, avoiding the main grand staircase where Roger’s private nurses often congregated. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every second felt like an eternity, every creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot. If Roger intercepted us now, Santiago’s life would be forfeit.
We reached the back exit leading directly to the underground staff parking garage. Marcus’s black SUV sat idling near the corner, its engine purring quietly.
We bundled Santiago into the back seat, surrounded by pillows. I climbed in beside him, holding him tight.
“Hold on, little man,” Marcus muttered, putting the vehicle into gear.
The heavy iron security gates parted smoothly as Marcus flashed his master security pass. The vehicle rolled out onto the sun-drenched Los Angeles highway, leaving the golden cage of the Alcazar estate behind us.
As we merged into traffic, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
“Where is the boy, Camila?”
A second later, a second text arrived:
“You just signed your death warrant.”
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I looked down at Santiago, who was leaning his head against my shoulder, finally breathing fresh air through a slightly cracked window. I looked back at the sprawling city skyline ahead of us.
We were out of the house. But the real war had just begun.
