Chapter 4 - The Law of the North End
The house on Hanover Street was a fortress hidden behind an eighteenth-century brick facade. To the tourists walking past the old churches, it looked like a historic mansion, but the glass in the windows was three inches thick, and the three men standing near the iron gate wore matching dark overcoats despite the summer heat.
Maeve spent three days inside the third-floor library, her shoulder slowly healing under the influence of Dr. Vance’s specialized heat packs. She didn't see Rafe; he was down at the fish pier, dealing with the fallout of the failed hit on his sister.
Instead, Cecily Colazo spent her afternoons sitting on the edge of Maeve’s window seat, her eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and intense, childlike fascination.
"Rafe is angry," Cecily said, her fingers twisting the edge of a lace handkerchief. "He hasn't slept in the main house since Tuesday. He’s clearing the docks, Maeve. The Lucchese family tried to take three of our container ships from the Belfast route. He thinks they used me to draw his attention away from the water."
"He shouldn't have brought me here," Maeve said, her gaze fixed on the small courtyard below where two guards were cleaning their weapons with meticulous, silent care. "I don't belong in a house like this, Cecily. I belong in Southie. I have bills to pay. I have a life."
"You don't have a life out there anymore," Rafe’s voice cut through the room as the heavy oak door swung open.
He was wearing his full formal suit now—a dark blue pinstripe that made his shoulders look twice as wide as the doorframe. Behind him stood two men carrying three large leather trunks bearing the stamp of a boutique on Newbury Street.
"Leave us, Cecily," Rafe ordered.
His sister didn't hesitate; she scrambled out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a soft, quick click that left Maeve alone with the don.
Rafe walked to the trunks, flipping the brass clasps open to reveal rows of silk dresses, heavy wool coats, and shoes made of leather so soft it looked like butter. "The Lucchese underboss sent an envoy to the North End this morning," he said, pulling a dark red velvet gown from the hanger and tossing it onto the table between them. "They want a sit-down at the Fairmont on Friday. They want to show the city council that the conflict is resolved."
"What does that have to do with me?" Maeve asked, her hand rising to touch the small bandage over her scapula.
"They think you're a maid I used as a shield," Rafe said, his gray eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to her, his presence filling the room until the air felt thin. "They think the Colazo family is weak because a girl from D Street had to save my sister. I’m going to show them exactly what you are to me."
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He reached out, his long, scarred fingers catching the collar of her gray nightgown, pulling her forward until her chest pressed against his vest. Maeve could feel the hard, mechanical rhythm of his heart through the fine fabric.
"You're going to that dinner, Maeve," he whispered, his breath warm against her temple. "You’re going to wear this red dress, and you're going to sit at my right hand. I’m going to tell Boston that you're not a waitress anymore. You're my bride. And if anyone looks at you the wrong way... I’ll burn the waterfront to the ground."
