The silence in the house was a living thing. It wasn’t a peaceful, quiet silence, but a thick, suffocating blanket woven from dust motes dancing in the slivers of moonlight and the faint, rapid ticking of a grandfather lock that sounded like a usary heart For Marco, a professional burglar who prided himself on being a ghost, this was the perfect environment. He moved through the cavernous foyer like oil on water, his black rubber soles making no sound on the imported marble. This was supported to be an easy score. The owners were on a monthly European vacation, a…