Chapter 14 The Mansion
"Mr. Santos, we are here."
The guard's voice was calm, but Cedric heard the quiet authority underneath it, it was the kind of tone that didn't need to be raised to be obeyed.
The car slowed to a stop in front of what looked less like a house and more like something pulled straight out of a billionaire's fever dream. Maybe a dictator's. Cedric wasn't sure there was much difference at this level.
He leaned forward in his seat, forehead nearly touching the window, and just stared.
The place was huge. A sprawling stretch of white marble and black glass that seemed to go on forever, surrounded by high stone walls and glowing iron gates that looked like they could stop a tank. Rows of trimmed cypress trees lined the long driveway like silent soldiers standing at attention. Fountains glittered under soft golden lights, their water catching the glow and throwing it back in shimmering arcs. Even the air smelled different here it was clean and expensive, like someone had bottled wealth and sprayed it across the grounds.
Cedric laughed under his breath, a short, disbelieving sound. "You've got to be kidding me."
The guard was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that came from years of hard living and harder fighting…opened the door and stood waiting. A thin scar ran along his jawline, barely visible in the dim light. "Sir?"
Cedric climbed out slowly, still staring up at the mansion like it might disappear if he blinked. "This thing's bigger than a hotel. Like, a nice hotel."
"Mr. Falcone prefers privacy," the guard replied simply, closing the car door behind him with a soft, final thunk. "This way, please."
Cedric fell into step beside him, his worn sneakers whispering over the polished stone pathway. Each step felt wrong, like he was tracking dirt into a museum. The massive double doors at the entrance were carved wood, dark and heavy, with iron handles that looked older than his entire neighborhood, and swung open before they even reached them. Someone inside must've been watching through the cameras. Probably several people.
The foyer hit him like stepping into another dimension.
Marble floors stretched out in every direction, so polished they reflected the light from the chandelier overhead like still water. The chandelier itself was ridiculous with crystal and gold, hanging three stories up, dripping light like something out of a palace. Gold-veined columns rose toward vaulted ceilings painted with scenes Cedric didn't recognize but knew were probably worth more than his life. A grand staircase split the room in two, curving upward on either side in matching spirals of dark wood and iron railwork.
Silent maids in crisp uniforms moved along the corridors like ghosts, heads bowed, hands folded. None of them looked up. The air was thick with the smell of leather, expensive perfume, and something faintly metallic that Cedric couldn't quite place…maybe gun oil, maybe just money. He wasn't sure.
"Holy..." Cedric muttered, turning in a slow circle. "Does he live here alone, or is there like a hundred people hiding somewhere?"
"Staff live in the east wing," the guard said, his tone flat, professional. "The underboss and senior personnel stay in the west wing. You'll be upstairs in the guest quarters until Mr. Falcone says otherwise."
Cedric barely processed the words. He was too busy staring at everything, the massive oil paintings in gilded frames, the thick Persian rugs that probably cost more than a car, the eerie, heavy silence that seemed to swallow every sound. It felt like the house itself was watching him. Like every breath he took was being recorded by invisible eyes behind the walls.
Then a voice shattered the stillness like breaking glass.
"What do you mean someone's taken the cocaine with the containers?"
Cedric's foot stopped mid-step.
The sound came from deeper in the mansion, muffled by distance and half-closed doors, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. His chest tightened.
"You're not doing your fucking job!"
The guard's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. The maids froze in place, statues in black and white. The whole house seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Cedric glanced sideways at the guard, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. "Should I….uh….maybe not be here right now?"
The guard didn't look at him. "You're expected."
"Right. Yeah. Expected." Cedric tried to sound casual, but his voice came out thin and strained. "Expected by the guy who's currently screaming about missing cocaine. That's... that's great. Super comforting."
"Find the one who did it…within two days!"
A sharp crash echoed from somewhere beyond the hall, glass shattering against stone, maybe a wall. Cedric flinched.
The guard placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but not rough, and guided him forward. They moved past more portraits~stern-faced men in old-fashioned suits, women with cold eyes, colder smiles~and locked doors with brass handles that gleamed like they'd never been touched. The voices grew clearer as they walked, lower now, tighter, the anger simmering down into something more dangerous. Controlled fury.
One of the voices was definitely Falcone's cold, measured, every word laced with barely restrained violence. Another voice answered in Italian, deeper, smoother, like gravel wrapped in silk.
The guard leaned in close, his voice dropping to almost nothing. "That's Mr. De Luca. The underboss. Whatever you do, don't speak unless someone speaks to you first. Understand?"
Cedric swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as sandpaper. He nodded.
They reached the edge of a wide corridor, and through an open door at the end, Cedric could see into what looked like an office, or maybe a war room. Dark wood paneling. Leather chairs. A desk the size of a small boat. Falcone stood by a tall window, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders tight under a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His free hand was clenched into a fist at his side. Behind him, a man in his fifties~De Luca, probably, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, face completely unreadable.
Falcone ended the call with a sharp snap of his wrist, the sound like a gunshot in the silence.
"Idiots," he muttered, his voice low and venomous.
Then his eyes lifted and landed directly on Cedric.
For a long, terrible moment, no one moved. No one breathed.
Falcone didn't look surprised. Just... interested. Like Cedric was a puzzle he'd been expecting to see, and now he was deciding where the pieces fit.
His gaze was dark, sharp, and impossibly steady. It felt like being dissected.
The guard cleared his throat softly, the sound almost apologetic. "Mr. Santos has arrived, sir."
Falcone's eyes stayed locked on Cedric for another three long seconds, each one stretching like an eternity. Then, quietly, his voice smooth and almost too calm, he said.
"Bring him in."
Cedric's pulse hammered in his ears as the guard's hand pressed gently against his back, urging him forward. He forced his legs to move, forced himself to step through that doorway, into the lion's den.
And as he crossed the threshold, one thought rang clear in his mind:
There's no going back now.