Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the O’Malleys
When Maeve awoke late the following morning, the snow had stopped, leaving Boston blanketed in a bright, blinding white landscape under a pale blue winter sky.
She was lying in a massive four-poster bed in the second-floor guest suite. The room was decorated in shades of cream and dark walnut, with a wood-burning fireplace crackling softly in the corner. On the bedside table sat a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea—steaming hot, two tea bags, no sugar—and a small brass bell.
Beside the cup was a handwritten note in sharp, precise calligraphy:
Drink the tea. Rest. Do not come downstairs until I call for you. — C.V.
Maeve smiled faintly, holding the cup with her good hand. For three years, she had made this exact tea for him every single morning. Seeing it made for her felt surreal, like stepping into a parallel world where the rules of Beacon Hill had been completely rewritten.
By noon, however, the silence of the house was broken by the sharp, metallic sound of the heavy iron gates opening downstairs.
Maeve wrapped a soft cashmere robe—left for her at the foot of the bed—around her clothes and walked out into the second-floor gallery. She looked down over the mahogany banister into the grand foyer below.
Callum stood near the front doors, dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored three-piece suit. Standing opposite him was Frank Vance, alongside four tall, heavily built men in long dark coats. The atmosphere in the foyer was tense, heavy with the quiet preparation for violence.
“They’re holding court at the Irish Center on West Third,” Frank was saying in a low voice. “Liam O’Malley brought his cousin Cormac and eight men from the lower docks. They think you’re going to call a mediator from New York.”
“I don't call mediators,” Callum said smoothly, adjusting the silver cufflinks on his sleeves. “New York doesn't run Boston.”
“Boss,” Frank warned, leaning in slightly. “It’s a set-up. They know you don't have your full crew in the city because of the holiday. If you walk into Third Street without twenty men behind you—”
“I don't need twenty men, Frank,” Callum interrupted. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, velvet-lined box, and handed it to Frank. “Give this to Thomas. If I’m not back by four, tell him to take Maeve out through the south cellar exit and drive her north across the state line.”
Maeve’s heart dropped into her stomach.
He’s walking into a trap.
She didn't think. She didn't calculate the consequences or remember her place as a servant.
She turned and rushed down the grand marble staircase, her bare feet slapping against the steps, her robe fluttering behind her like a sail.
“Mr. Vale!” she cried out.
All six men in the foyer turned instantly, their hands moving reflexively toward the inside of their coats. When they saw Maeve standing on the bottom landing, bruised, pale, with her arm wrapped in white fiberglass, they froze.
Callum stepped away from Frank, his dark brows drawing together in immediate disapproval.
“Maeve,” he said sternly. “I told you to stay upstairs.”
“You’re going to Third Street,” she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline as she stepped onto the marble floor of the foyer. She ignored the four armed men staring at her in shock. “You’re going to see the man who sent those people after me.”
Callum watched her, his expression unreadable. “It is business, Maeve. It does not concern you.”
“It does concern me!” she snapped, taking two steps toward him. “They broke my wrist to send you a message! They used me to get to you! If you go there alone, if you let them trap you—!”
She stopped, her throat catching as she realized she had just yelled at Callum Vale in front of his five top lieutenants.
Frank Vance exchanged a quiet, stunned glance with the man beside him. No one had spoken to Callum in that tone since his father was buried eight years ago.
Callum didn't lose his temper. He didn't raise his voice.
He walked over to where she stood on the bottom stair, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and intense.
“Maeve,” he said softly, so low that only she could hear. “Do you trust me?”
Maeve looked into his eyes—eyes that held no fear, no doubt, only a cold, terrifying certainty.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then go back upstairs,” Callum instructed gently. “Drink your tea. Watch the snow. I will be back at three o'clock to have Christmas dinner with you.”
May you like
He turned, picked up his heavy black wool coat from the bench, and swung it over his shoulders.
“Frank,” Callum commanded as he walked toward the heavy front doors. “Let’s go kill a rat.”
