While the ballroom descended into a cacophony of whispers and camera flashes, the West Wing remained silent.
In the heavy darkness of Alistair Croft’s study, the only light came from the glow of the security monitors. On the central screen, a high-definition feed showed the chaos downstairs: the shattered glass, the weeping girl, the terrified parents.
Leo Croft sat in his grandfather’s high-backed leather chair.
He didn’t look frightened. He didn’t look surprised. He sat with the stillness of a predator, his hands folded calmly on the mahogany desk.
He reached out and picked up the burner phone. He spun the chair slowly around to face the window, looking out at the darkness where the snow had once fallen.
“She’s inside,” Leo whispered into the receiver, a chilling maturity in his voice. “The game has begun.”
He hung up. In the reflection of the window, his twelve-year-old face was gone. In its place was the shadow of the man who had built the fortress–and the boy who was now ready to rule it.