Chapter 2 - The Fortress on Beacon Hill
The black Town Car was waiting directly beneath the emergency room awning, its engine idling with a low, rhythmic purr.
Standing beside the open rear door was a man Maeve recognized immediately: Frank Vance. Frank was Callum’s oldest lieutenant, a man built like a brick wall with grey hair cropped close to his skull and eyes that had seen forty years of Boston bloodshed. He was usually surrounded by three or four younger enforcers, but tonight, he stood alone in the falling snow, holding a heavy wool blanket.
When Frank saw Callum walk through the sliding glass doors carrying Maeve, his weathered face didn't betray a hint of surprise. He simply stepped forward, draped the heavy blanket over Maeve’s legs, and opened the door wider.
“The road to Southie is blocked, boss,” Frank reported quietly as Callum lowered Maeve into the leather backseat. “Plows haven't touched the side streets yet.”
“We aren't going to Southie,” Callum said, climbing into the seat beside her and closing the door. “Take us back to the house. Tell Thomas to bring his medical bag to the library.”
Frank hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Thomas? Boss, Thomas is on holiday leave in—”
“Tell him to fly back,” Callum cut in, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Now, Frank.”
Frank nodded grimly, closed the door, and got behind the wheel.
The car moved silently through the deserted, snow-covered streets of Boston. The city was ghostly at one in the morning on Christmas Day. Streetlights cast long, golden pools over untouched drifts of white, and the windows of brownstones showed the faint, flickering red and green lights of Christmas trees.
Inside the car, the heat blew warm and silent. Maeve sat stiffly against the leather, terrified that if she leaned back, she would leave blood on the immaculate upholstery.
“Lean back,” Callum said from the darkness beside her.
“I’m fine, sir—”
“Maeve.” His hand caught her shoulder, firm but gentle, pressing her back against the soft headrest. “Stop fighting me. You’re safe.”
She let out a long, ragged breath, her head sinking into the leather. The pain in her wrist was beginning to throb in earnest now that the initial shock was wearing off. Her face felt hot and tight, the left side of her vision slightly blurred by the swelling.
“Who were they, Mr. Vale?” she asked softly, looking out at the passing dark shapes of the Public Garden. “Why would anyone want to hurt me? I don't have anything.”
“They weren't trying to steal from you, Maeve,” Callum said, his voice flat and deadly. “They were sending a message to me. They know I keep my inner circle small. They thought hitting someone who works in my home would make me nervous. They thought it would prove that my perimeter isn't as solid as I think it is.”
Maeve turned her head slightly to look at him. “Did it?”
Callum looked out his window. The faint orange light of a passing streetlamp caught the sharp line of his profile.
“No,” he said quietly. “It just made them dead men walking.”
Ten minutes later, the Town Car swung off the main road and turned up the private, cobbled driveway of the Beacon Hill mansion. The massive iron gates closed automatically behind them with a heavy, metallic clang that felt final.
The house rose up out of the darkness like a fortress—four stories of dark red brick, wrought-iron balconies, and high, narrow windows. To the rest of Boston, it was an architectural landmark. To Maeve, who had spent three years scrubbing its marble floors and dusting its antique molding, it was a quiet, lonely place where a powerful man lived alone in the dark.
Frank opened the door, and Callum helped Maeve out of the car. She tried to step onto the snow on her own feet, but a sharp spike of dizziness hit her, making her knees buckle.
Without a word, Callum caught her around the waist, scooped her back into his arms, and carried her up the wide granite steps.
He pushed open the heavy oak front doors. The grand foyer was warm, lit only by the low amber glow of the fireplace at the far end of the hall. The air smelled of cedar, old polish, and the fresh pine wreath Maeve had hung on the balcony railing three days ago.
Callum walked past the grand staircase, past the formal dining room where six crystal vases sat waiting for fresh water, and carried her straight into the private library.
He laid her down on the deep leather sofa in front of the massive stone hearth. He pulled a hand-woven throw blanket from his favorite armchair—the one where he sat every evening at nine to read his reports—and wrapped it around her shoulders.
He knelt beside the sofa, his dark eyes level with hers.
“Frank is clearing out the guest suite on the second floor,” Callum told her. “You are staying here until your wrist heals and the men who did this are dealt with.”
“Mr. Vale, I can’t,” Maeve protested, her voice trembling. “It isn't appropriate. I’m the house staff. What will the other employees say when they return after the holiday?”
Callum reached out, his long fingers gently cupping the uninjured side of her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone with a fierce, quiet intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
“There are no other employees returning after the holiday,” Callum whispered. “I just fired all of them with six months’ severance.”
Maeve blinked, stunned. “You... what?”
“The house is compromised,” Callum said simply. “Someone leaked your shift schedule to the O’Malleys. Until I know who took their money, no one steps foot across this threshold except Frank and me.”
May you like
He stood up, looking down at her as the firelight danced across his dark coat.
“Which means, Maeve, for the foreseeable future... you aren't the maid anymore.”
