Chapter 2 - The Safehouse in Beacon Hill
The black armored Suburban tore through the rain-slicked alleys of Boston at eighty miles per hour, its sirens muted.
Dominic sat in the rear passenger cabin, his bespoke charcoal suit torn at the shoulder, blood staining his cuff.
Across from him, Clara sat huddled against the leather seat, clutching a dark wool blanket that a bodyguard had tossed her.
Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she stared at the high-caliber rifles resting between the floorboards.
She had spent ten months carrying soup bowls and refilling water glasses for minimum wage.
Now, she was riding in a rolling fortress with four armed killers who spoke only in clipped tactical coordinates.
“The penthouse at the harbor is compromised,” Dominic commanded into his satellite radio, his voice calm and terrifyingly steady.
“Reroute the convoy to the ancestral compound on Beacon Hill.”
“Lock down the private gates, deploy the thermal drones, and wake up our forensic medical team.”
He lowered the radio and turned his gaze toward Clara, his piercing grey eyes dissecting her every breath.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Clara,” she whispered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“Clara Montgomery.”
Dominic’s brow furrowed slightly, a faint flicker of recognition crossing his face before he masked it behind stone.
“How did a waitress on the fifty-fourth floor read an encrypted dispatch from the Thorne syndicate, Miss Montgomery?”
“I saw her phone screen when she set her clutch down,” Clara explained, her voice trembling but clear.
“The message mentioned sweepers in the east tunnel at 9:15.”
“I grew up around men who played dangerous games; I know what a hit looks like.”
Dominic leaned back against the headrest, studying the fierce, unbroken dignity in her hazel eyes.
Most people in this city begged for mercy or hyperventilated when gunfire shattered the room.
This girl had picked up a pen, risked her life to save a stranger, and now sat looking directly into the eyes of a kingpin.
The convoy pulled through a massive wrought-iron gate surrounded by twelve-foot brick walls topped with security cameras.
The Beacon Hill estate was a fortress of 19th-century limestone, completely isolated from the prying eyes of the public.
Dominic stepped out into the cold drizzle, extending a hand to help Clara down from the heavy vehicle.
His fingers were warm and calloused, closing firmly around her cold hand with surprising, protective gentleness.
“You saved my life tonight, Clara,” Dominic said, looking down at her under the amber carriage lamps.
“In my world, a blood debt is paid with absolute loyalty and total protection.”
“From this second onward, nobody touches you, nobody threatens your family, and you will never scrub another floor.”
May you like
Clara looked up at the towering manor, realizing her invisible life had vanished into the gunfire of Table Nine.
She had stepped into a den of wolves, and the alpha had just declared her untouchable.
