Dante rarely slept deeply anymore.
Years of surviving... no, thriving... in Adrian Blake's dangerous, unforgiving world had long since sharpened his instincts into something almost primal. His body had been trained to wake at the slightest disturbance: a floorboard creaking where it shouldn't, a door closing too softly, the faintest shift in the air. True rest was a luxury he had surrendered long ago.
That particular morning, he had been resting in the west wing of the sprawling mansion, stretched out on one of the deep leather couches in a private sitting room.
He had spent most of the night handling the mountain of sensitive business Adrian had left behind, encrypted calls, quiet threats, and delicate alliances that required his personal attention. Exhaustion had finally pulled him under just before dawn, but it was a light, restless sleep.
The first crash barely registered in his subconscious.
The second one, however, cut through like a gunshot.
