Chapter 2 - THE FORTRESS ON THE CLIFF
The car drove north, leaving the glittering high-rises of Downtown Boston behind as it wound up the coastal roads toward Nahant.
Dora kept her eyes glued to the window. She knew the geography of Massachusetts, but she knew it from the perspective of bus routes and late-night highway exits. Here, where the private roads cut through thick pine groves and ocean spray hit the stone walls, the world looked ancient, dark, and heavily guarded.
The Maybach slowed as it approached a set of towering wrought-iron gates set into a twelve-foot stone wall.
Two armed men in dark tactical jackets stepped out of a guardhouse, flashlights sweeping over the license plate. When they saw Lev behind the wheel, they snapped quick salutes and pressed a button inside the booth. The massive gates swung open silently.
Beyond the gate lay a winding driveway flanked by tall blue spruces, opening up into a courtyard paved with dark cobblestones. At the center stood a limestone mansion that looked less like a residence and more like a renovated nineteenth-century coastal fortress. Lit floodlights illuminated reinforced stone arches, bulletproof tinted glass, and security cameras sweeping the perimeter in rhythmic, overlapping arcs.
“Home,” Victor said softly as the car glided to a stop beneath a portico.
Dora swallowed hard. “It looks like a prison.”
“It’s a vault,” Victor corrected, opening his door. “Prisons keep people in. Vaults keep the world out.”
Lev opened Dora’s door, extending a white-gloved hand to help her down. She hesitated, looking down at her scuffed shoes on the damp cobblestones, then stepped out into the night air.
The front doors of the mansion were pushed open from the inside by an elderly woman in a crisp gray uniform. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her face lined with age, but her dark eyes were bright, sharp, and assessing.
“Mr. Romano,” the woman said, stepping aside as they entered the heated marble foyer. “The west wing guest suite is prepared. Medical supplies are in the study.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gable,” Victor said, taking off his heavy wool coat and handing it to her. He turned to Dora. “This is Mrs. Gable. She manages the house. Anything you need, you ask her.”
Mrs. Gable’s eyes lingered on Dora’s stained server’s shirt, the dark blood on her hand, and the fierce, defensive posture Dora held like an invisible shield.
“Good evening, Miss Hayes,” Mrs. Gable said respectfully, bowing her head. “Would you prefer tea or broth while I attend to your hand?”
Dora blinked, caught off guard by the total lack of judgment in the older woman’s tone. “Tea is... tea is fine. Thank you.”
“Follow me, please,” Victor said, leading Dora down a wide hallway lined with oil paintings depicting old Boston harbors and ironclad ships.
He opened a set of double oak doors into a vast study filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive mahogany desk, and a crackling stone fireplace. A leather sofa sat before the hearth.
“Sit,” Victor ordered gently.
Dora sat on the edge of the leather cushion, feeling completely out of place in her ruined uniform against the luxury of the room.
Victor walked over to a side table, pulled a silver first-aid kit from a drawer, and brought it back to the coffee table. He dropped to one knee before her—just as he had done on the cold marble floor of the Aster Hotel ballroom.
He reached out, taking her right hand in his. His large, warm fingers gently manipulated her index finger, inspecting the small glass cut.
“It’s clean,” he murmured, unscrewing a bottle of antiseptic. “It won't need stitches. Not like the ones you gave me.”
Dora looked down at his dark hair, the faint scent of cedarwood rising between them.
“You remember that night,” she said quietly.
“I remember every second of it,” Victor replied, applying the stinging liquid to her cut with a cotton pad. He didn't look up. “I remember the smell of bleach and old grease. I remember the sound of your hands shaking as you threaded that fishing line through my skin. And I remember asking you why you didn't just call the police.”
“And I told you the police don't come to South Boston at three in the morning for men bleeding in alleyways,” Dora whispered.
May you like
Victor finally raised his eyes, looking directly into hers.
“They do when I call them,” he said softly. “And now, so do I.”
