Chapter 2 - The Audit of the UnderworldWithin twenty minutes, Callum Vale’s black Maybach sat idling outside the sliding emergency room doors, idling in a red zone that local police cars usually ticketed instantly. Yet, two cruiser officers parked nearby conveniently looked the other way.
Maeve sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in Callum’s cashmere scarf, staring out at the swirling snow. Her wrist throbbed, but the throbbing was nothing compared to the roaring anxiety in her chest. She had spent three years blending into the background of his fortress on Beacon Hill, meticulously dusting antique mirrors, baking shortbread to his exact preference, and making sure she was a ghost who cleaned up after ghosts.
She was not a priority. She was domestic staff.
So why was the most feared man in Boston driving her home himself?
"You're quiet," Callum said, his eyes fixed on the slick asphalt ahead. The dashboard lights cast a sharp, cold shadow across his profile.
"I'm just thinking about the Christmas breakfast, Mr. Vale," Maeve said softly. "If I take a few days off—"
"There is no Christmas breakfast," Callum cut her off flatly.
Maeve turned her head sharply, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through her cheek. "Sir?"
"I canceled it," he said, turning the steering wheel with effortless precision. "The contractors, the union reps, the city councilmen who treat my dining room like a back-alley political lounge—I told them my home was closed for the holidays."
Maeve's breath hitched. "Canceled? But they've been planning those meetings for months. The political alliances—"
"Can wait," Callum said coldly. "My maid is sitting in an emergency room with a broken wrist because some low-life coward thought they could tear her coat in my city. Everything else stops."
They pulled through the towering iron gates of the Beacon Hill estate. The massive brick mansion stood like a Victorian monolith against the winter sky, dark and imposing. But as Callum parked the car and walked around to open her door, Maeve noticed something strange.
Every single light in the east and west wings was blazing.
As they walked up the grand stone steps, the heavy oak front door swung open automatically. Standing in the foyer was Marcus, Callum's aging, iron-fisted head of security, looking bewildered with a first-aid kit in one hand and a bottle of antiseptics in the other.
"Boss," Marcus began, his eyes darting to Maeve. "The kitchen staff already left like you ordered, but—"
"Marcus," Callum interrupted, stepping past him into the marble hallway. "Find Dante. Tell him I want every street camera from downtown to the financial district pulled by midnight."
Marcus blinked, realizing the gravity in his boss's tone. "Dante's already on it, but boss... what happened?"
May you like
Callum stopped at the foot of the grand staircase—the very staircase Maeve had polished that morning—and turned back. His face was a mask of cold fury.
"Someone jumped Maeve tonight," Callum said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "Find out who they are. And when you find them, don't call the police. Bring them to the basement."
