Chapter 5 - The Woman in Dorchester
Harper sat at the small formica table in her best friend’s cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Dorchester.
The room smelled of burned toast and cheap hazelnut coffee. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windowpane.
Becca, a fiery redhead with three nose piercings and a laptop covered in activist stickers, slammed a mug of dark coffee down in front of Harper.
"He said what to you?!" Becca roared, pacing the small kitchen with a spatula held like a battle axe. "That greasy, mobbed-up, arrogant piece of aristocratic trash said NO ONE WOULD EVER WANT YOU?!"
"Becca, please, lower your voice," Harper murmured, wrapping her thick hands around the warm mug. "The neighbors—"
"Screw the neighbors!" Becca yelled. "Harper, you worked eighty hours a week for that monster! You cured his kid’s night terrors! You organized his entire domestic life! You fixed his dry cleaning, you managed his household payroll, you even remembered his dead wife’s memorial mass when his own sister forgot!"
Harper stared down at the black coffee. "He was right about one thing."
Becca stopped dead in her tracks, turning to glare at her friend. "Don't you dare say it, Harper. Don't you dare."
"I am almost thirty, Becca," Harper said softly, her voice carrying that terrible, calm resignation that had terrified Victor the night before. "I have no career. I have no degree. I spent four years taking care of my dying mother, and two years taking care of a mob boss’s son. Look at me. I'm a size eighteen. I dress in clothes meant to blend into the wallpaper. Who is ever going to look at me and see a partner?"
"Harper Bennett," Becca said, dropping to her knees beside Harper’s chair and gripping her wrists hard. "You are the kindest, smartest, most beautiful woman I know. Your weight doesn't make you invisible. Their stupidity makes them blind. Victor Rossi is a cruel, powerful man who uses people until they break, and you were too good for that bloody house the day you walked through the gates!"
Before Harper could reply, a low, heavy rumble shook the windowpanes of the third-floor apartment.
Harper frowned, looking toward the window.
Down on the narrow Dorchester street, three polished black Lincoln Navigators pulled up to the curb, double-parking across two fire hydrants.
The doors opened simultaneously.
Six men in dark suits stepped out onto the wet asphalt, forming a defensive perimeter around the entrance of the brick building.
Becca peered through the blinds, her face going pale. "Uh... Harper? Why are there six hitmen standing outside my building?"
Harper’s heart skipped a beat. She stood up, walking slowly to the window.
From the middle Navigator, a broad-shouldered man in a heavy wool coat stepped out. He carried a large black umbrella, his silver-tinged hair glinting in the streetlights.
Frank Novak.
"They're here," Harper whispered.
"Don't open the door!" Becca hissed, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove. "I'll call the cops!"
"Becca, they are the cops in this city," Harper said gently, taking the skillet from her friend’s hands and setting it down. "Let me talk to him."
Two minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed up the wooden stairs of the apartment building. A knock sounded on the thin door—three deliberate, heavy thuds.
Harper opened the door.
Frank Novak stood in the dimly lit hallway, his suit dripping wet, holding his leather hat in his hands. He looked old, tired, and deeply uncomfortable.
"Miss Bennett," Frank said softly.
"Frank," Harper replied, keeping her frame blocking the narrow doorway. "If Victor sent you to intimidate me, you can tell him I have nothing he wants."
"He didn't send me to intimidate you, Miss Bennett," Frank rasped, his eyes filled with a desperate, genuine plea. "He sent me to beg."
Harper blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Finn is sick," Frank said, his voice cracking slightly. "His fever is a hundred and two. He won't eat. He won't drink water. He’s locked himself under his desk and he’s clawing at his own neck. The doctors say if he stays in this state another twelve hours, they’ll have to admit him to the pediatric ICU and sedate him."
Harper felt a sudden, sharp stab of agony straight through her chest. Finn.
"And the docks?" Harper asked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Is that why you're here, Frank? Because O'Malley shut down Pier 9?"
Frank winced, looking down at his polished shoes. "You knew about O'Malley?"
"I organized the baskets," Harper said coldly. "Victor didn't care about a dying child, but I did. Tell Victor his money can buy another dock boss."
"Miss Bennett... please," Frank begged, stepping closer, his hands held open in total surrender. "Forget the docks. Screw the docks! I don't care about Rossi's business! I'm talking about the kid. That little boy loves you. He’s dying in that house without you."
Harper stood in the doorway, her hands trembling.
She remembered Finn’s small fingers clutching her shirt. She remembered the way he smelled of baby shampoo and warm milk. She remembered his small voice asking, Is he bad?
She turned her head and looked back at Becca, who was shaking her head violently from the kitchen corner. Don't go back, Harper. Don't let them drag you back.
Harper closed her eyes.
She breathed in.
She breathed out.
"I’m not coming back as an employee, Frank," Harper said, opening her eyes, her voice ringing with an iron authority Frank had never heard from her before.
Frank straightened up. "Name your terms, Miss Bennett. Anything."
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"I will come to see Finn," Harper said. "I will calm him down. But Victor Rossi will not be in that house when I arrive. He will leave the property, he will stay at his hotel in the city, and he will not speak to me."
Frank didn't hesitate for a single second. "Done. Get your coat."
