Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Marchetti Manor
By midnight, a convoy of armored black SUVs pulled through the grand wrought-iron gates of Marchetti Manor, an expansive stone estate nestled in the quiet, heavily wooded hills of Brookline.
Corsica sat in the back seat of the lead vehicle, Nero’s heavy head resting across her lap. She felt the sudden shift in altitude, the crunch of smooth gravel beneath the heavy tires, and the ambient quiet of an isolated fortress.
When the car stopped, the door opened, and Paxton’s strong hand offered itself to her.
"Watch your step," he said softly. "There are three stone steps leading up to the foyer."
"I can manage," Corsica said habitually, tapping her cane against the ground. But as her foot slipped slightly on the wet cobblestones, Paxton’s hand caught her elbow instantly, steadying her with effortless strength. His touch was warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle for a man whose reputation struck terror into the hearts of Boston’s underworld.
"I’ve got you," he murmured close to her ear.
A quiet shiver ran down Corsica’s spine. She nodded, allowing him to guide her up the steps and through the grand oak doors of the house.
The interior of Marchetti Manor smelled of aged mahogany, beeswax polish, and faint traces of lavender—the same soap Celeste had used years ago. The house was dead silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall.
"Letty and Ros are already upstairs with their nanny," Paxton said as he helped Corsica untie her damp wool coat. He hung it on the brass stand near the door. "Your room is on the second floor, down the east wing. It has a private bath and a terrace. I’ve had my men clear all low obstacles from the pathways."
Corsica adjusted her dark glasses, her acute hearing picking up the vastness of the entryway. "You don't have to do all this, Mr. Marchetti. I came to Boston to find answers about my mother, not to become a burden on a family I don't know."
"You're not a burden," Paxton said sharply, though there was no anger in his voice—only a fierce intensity. "You are Celeste’s sister. You are carrying my daughters' cousin. And as long as you are breathing, you are my responsibility."
He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. "And call me Paxton."
Nero walked around Corsica, sniffing Paxton’s leather shoes thoroughly before letting out a soft grunt of approval.
"He likes you," Corsica noted, a small, subtle curve touching her mouth. "Nero rarely likes anyone on the first day. He usually takes weeks to accept strangers."
"Animals know when a man has nothing left to hide," Paxton said quietly, his eyes lingering on her lips. Up close, seeing her in the warm light of his home, the pain in his chest was a living thing. She moved differently than Celeste—more cautiously, more deliberately, her posture grounded by years of navigating a dark world—but her presence filled the hollow, empty spaces of his home in a way that terrified him.
A heavy knock at the front door broke the quiet.
Gideon walked in, shaking rain from his coat, his expression grave. "Paxton. We have a problem."
Paxton didn't look away from Corsica. "What is it?"
"Word has reached Southie," Gideon said tightly. "Dominic Brennan—Malachy’s eldest son and Tommy’s nephew—knows a blind woman entered Giordano’s today with a Neapolitan mastiff. He’s already calling in favors from his contacts in the police department. They know she’s here."
Corsica’s hand tightened around her cane. "Dominic... he was the one who hunted Tommy. He’s the reason we had to keep moving every six months."
Paxton’s jaw set into a lethal line. "Dominic Brennan is a rat who lives on borrowed time. Let him look. If he sets one foot in Brookline, he won't live long enough to regret it."
"Paxton, there’s more," Gideon added, stepping closer so his voice dropped to a low whisper, though Corsica’s sharp ears caught every word. "The bomb that killed Celeste three years ago... the forensic signature didn't match Southie’s usual demolition gear. It came from military-grade plastic explosives. The kind only supplied through elite syndicate brokers in the West End."
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Paxton’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "Someone in our own coalition supplied the explosives to murder my wife."
"Yes," Gideon said grimly. "And if Dominic is hunting Corsica, it’s not just for the Giordano trust money. He’s working with whoever helped him set that bomb three years ago."
