Chapter 6 - The Iron Citadel of Maine
The safehouse in Maine was not a cabin in the woods; it was a coastal fortress. Built from dark granite and reinforced timber on a private bluff overlooking the Atlantic, the estate was surrounded by a ten-foot concrete wall topped with thermal security cameras and motion sensors. It was where the Russo family had hidden their assets during the federal investigations of the nineteen-nineties, a place designed to withstand a siege.
By dawn, the snowstorm had moved east over the ocean, leaving the coast white, jagged, and freezing under a pale pink sky.
I sat in a wide, sunlit bedroom on the second floor, wrapped in a plush duvet, watching the waves crash against the black rocks below. The room smelled of cedar wood and the lavender tea that Dominic’s personal physician, an old Italian man named Dr. Bianchi, had prepared for me after verifying that the baby’s heartbeat was still strong and steady despite the trauma in Boston.
The door clicked open, and Dominic stepped inside. He had washed the plaster dust from his hair and changed into a clean black cashmere sweater, but the exhaustion on his face was prominent. Dark purple circles sat beneath his eyes, and his right hand was wrapped in a fresh tensor bandage where he had strained the knuckles against the mantelpiece in Chicago.
He carried a silver tray with a bowl of hot chicken broth and fresh bread. He set it down on the bedside table, then sat on the edge of the mattress, his gray eyes instantly scanning my face for any sign of distress.
"Bianchi says you need to eat," Dominic said softly, his voice a low rumble that felt incredibly comforting after the chaos of the night. "He says the baby’s blood pressure is normal, but your iron levels are low from three months of eating bakery scraps."
"I was doing the best I could, Dominic," I said, looking down at my hands. "I didn't have a corporate budget in Boston."
"I know," he whispered, his hand reaching out to touch my hair, his long fingers curling behind my neck to pull me gently toward him until my forehead rested against his chest. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I let them make you feel like you had to live like a ghost. When I look at those dead men on your floor... when I think about what would have happened if Leo’s algorithm had been thirty minutes slower..."
"Don't," I interrupted, wrapping my arms around his waist, burying my face in the clean scent of his sweater. "You're here now. You found us."
"I’m never leaving again," he swore, his chin resting on top of my head. "The Morettis think they can play the old games, Megan. They think because my father died last year, they can use the old treaty rules to partition my territory. They don't realize that the only reason I kept the peace was because I didn't have anything worth fighting for."
He slid his hand down to my stomach, his wide palm instantly catching a small, distinct thump from within. He froze, his gray eyes widening as a look of pure, childlike wonder broke through his severe features.
"He... he kicked," Dominic breathed, his fingers spreading across the fabric of the duvet.
"It’s a she, according to Dr. Bianchi’s ultrasound from an hour ago," I said, a small, fragile smile finally breaking through my exhaustion. "And she’s been active ever since we crossed the border into New Hampshire."
Dominic lowered his head until his cheek was pressed directly against the curve of my belly, his large shoulders dropping an inch as he let out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a man finally setting down a crushing weight.
"She’s going to have your eyes, Megan," he murmured against my skin. "And I am going to build her a world where she never has to know the name of a single gun."
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The door to the bedroom opened slightly, and Leo stood in the frame, his face grim. He didn't enter; he simply caught Dominic’s eye and gave a single, sharp nod toward the hallway.
The peace was over. The war had arrived at the gate.
