Chapter 5 - The Fairmont Exhibition
The grand ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza was a sea of black silk, white gold, and the distinct, heavy scent of old judicial corruption. The Lucchese family had taken the entire left side of the room—twelve men with thick necks and diamond pinky rings, their faces frozen in expressions of hyper-vigilant arrogance.
When the double doors opened, the chatter did not die down immediately; it ceased with the sudden, sharp finality of an executioner's blade.
Rafe Colazo entered first, his charcoal suit immaculate, his hand resting firmly on the small of Maeve Donovan’s back.
Maeve did not look like the girl who had spent the last two years scrubbing grease off the floors of The Salt Line. The dark red velvet gown fit her like a second skin, the high collar hiding the bandage on her shoulder, while her silver-threaded hair was piled high on her head, secured by a single, antique diamond comb that had belonged to Rafe’s mother. Her face was pale, but her chin was held at an angle that made the judges at the front table look down at their soup spoons.
"Sit," Rafe murmured, pulling back the heavy gilded chair at the center table.
Maeve sat, her silk skirts settling around her ankles with a soft rustle. Across the linen sat Dominic Lucchese, the patriarch of the southern faction—a man with teeth like old piano keys and eyes that had spent forty years looking for a weakness in the Colazo line.
"So this is the girl," Dominic said, his voice a wet, rattling wheeze as he took a sip of his wine. "The one from the newspapers. The waitress who knows how to catch a pipe. You have strange tastes, Rafe. I thought you’d find a woman from the North End who knew how to sign a check, not someone who carries the smell of kitchen grease into a five-star hotel."
The men behind Dominic laughed—a short, ugly sound that ended instantly when Rafe’s hand dropped onto the table.
He didn't draw a gun. He simply placed a small, silver-plated spoon on the white cloth between them—the exact spoon Maeve had been accused of staining on the day of the attack.
"Dominic," Rafe said, his voice dropping into that low, mechanical register that made the glass chandelier above them hum slightly in its iron frame. "This girl took the iron meant for my blood. That means her name is Colazo now. If you think she smells like grease, you might want to check the smell coming from your warehouse on Pier 4. Because as of three o'clock this afternoon, my men have cleared your security team out of the shipping office."
Dominic’s smile froze. His hand went to his breast pocket, but before his fingers could clear the wool, two of Rafe’s guards had their weapons level beneath the tablecloth, the red laser sights painting two identical dots over the old man’s tie.
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"The sit-down is over, Dominic," Rafe said, standing up and reaching down to catch Maeve by the arm, lifting her from her seat with a slow, possessive authority that left the entire room breathless. "Tell your boys in Newark that the Boston harbor is closed to their cargo. If I see a single Lucchese boat near the light station before the snow hits... I won't send an envoy. I’ll send a clean-up crew."
Maeve didn't look back as Rafe led her through the ballroom, her red velvet skirt sweeping the floorboards with a heavy, rhythmic cadence that sounded exactly like victory.
