Chapter 2 - The Sound of Truth
My heart hammered against my ribs. Marcus stopped beside Dominic’s chair, tilting his head with innocent curiosity. He wasn't looking at the dark tattoos or the intimidating posture of the man before him.
He was staring intently into Dominic’s right ear.
Marcus raised a tiny finger, reaching directly toward the man’s temple.
I lunged forward, grabbing my son’s wrist just before his fingers made contact. "Don't touch him!" I gasped out loud.
Dominic’s eyes snapped open instantly. His dark gaze locked onto mine, sharp and intense. The sudden movement frightened Marcus, but instead of pulling back, my son pointed directly at the side of Dominic’s head.
"Mommy, there’s a bug in his ear," Marcus said clearly in his high-pitched voice.
My blood ran cold. Dominic was completely deaf, but he was a master lip-reader. His brows pulled together as his eyes tracked my son's lips.
"A black one," Marcus insisted, leaning closer before I could pull him back. "It has shiny metal legs."
Dominic’s posture went rigid. The cold, unreadable mask he usually wore cracked, revealing a flash of deep, primitive fear. He raised a hand toward his ear, then hesitated in mid-air—as if touching it himself might confirm a terrifying truth he had spent three years avoiding.
Before I could react, Marcus’s tiny hand darted forward again with lightning speed.
Dominic instinctively flinched away, but Marcus pulled his hand back, clutching a tiny, intricate metallic object between his fingertips.
Suddenly, a raw, sharp gasping sound tore from Dominic’s throat.
It wasn't a roar of anger. It was a breathless groan of sheer disorientation.
Dominic grabbed his own temple, his eyes wide with shock. For the first time in three years, the ambient hum of the room, the distant sound of string instruments from the ballroom, and the sound of his own breathing flooded into his sensory awareness.
The micro-device Marcus held wasn't an insect. It was a sophisticated, custom-engineered dampening transmitter designed to mimic a localized neurological blockage while actively disrupting auditory nerve signals.
Dominic stared down at Marcus’s tiny open palm, then looked slowly toward the glass doors of the conservatory.
Victor Strand stood in the doorway, holding a silver serving tray. His face had drained of all color, his jaw tight with sheer panic.
Dominic slowly pushed himself up from the chair. His voice, unused for three years, was low, raspy, and dangerous as he uttered a single word:
May you like
"Victor."
Victor dropped the silver tray. It clattered loudly against the marble floor, shattering the silence. Without a word, Victor turned on his heel and bolted down the dark service corridor.
