Chapter 2 - THE SECRETS IN THE SAFE
Upstairs in the private master suite, far away from the panicked murmurs of the expelled guests, Dr. Sterling adjusted his stethoscope with a furrowed brow. He had patched up bullet wounds, set broken bones after mob turf wars, and delivered children into some of the most dangerous dynasties on the East Coast, but the tension in the Carver study tonight was suffocating.
Hannah lay propped up against a mountain of goose-down pillows on a velvet settee. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks, though the dull ache in her lower back remained.
"The contractions have subsided," Dr. Sterling announced, packing his silver instruments into a leather case. "It was stress-induced Braxton Hicks, compounded by physical exhaustion and shock. But I want absolute bed rest for the next week, Hannah. No lifting, no stress, and certainly no scissor-wielding socialites."
Daniel stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling mahogany desk, staring out into the dark, rain-swept gardens. "Is the baby safe?"
"The baby is surprisingly resilient, Daniel," the doctor replied, shooting a sideways glance at the mafia boss. "Though I’d advise you to keep your fiancée—or whoever she currently is—far away from the nursery wing. The child’s heart rate spiked significantly during the incident."
"She won't be a problem again," Daniel said flatly. "Thank you, Doctor. Martin will escort you out."
Once the door clicked shut, the study fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Hannah shifted slightly, pulling Daniel’s oversized wool coat tighter around her shoulders. The warmth of it was comforting, but it reminded her too much of the terrifying power he wielded—a power that had kept her trapped in this gilded cage for five months.
"You should have let me handle her," Hannah whispered, her voice raspy.
Daniel turned from the window. He walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping a few feet from the settee. In the soft lamplight, the hard lines of his face softened just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath.
"She humiliated you in my home," Daniel said. "She touched you. Those are two mistakes that no one in Providence makes twice."
"You care about your public image," Hannah challenged, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce defiance. "An engagement to a Whitlock solidifies your control over the northern shipping routes. Destroying that tonight over a maid... people will think you've lost your mind."
Daniel let out a low, humorless chuckle. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, heavy brass key, and walked over to a hidden panel behind a row of leather-bound law books. With a quiet click, a wall safe swung open.
He didn't pull out guns or stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Instead, he pulled out a thick manila folder labeled MONROE, A. and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her.
Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Monroe. Her maiden name. Her brother Caleb's name.
"What is this?" she breathed, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the folder.
"Your brother Caleb was a brilliant bookkeeper," Daniel said quietly, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk. "He came to me six months ago with a ledger that didn't balance. He told me someone was systematically embezzling from the Carver-Whitlock shipping trust, laundering cartel money through fictitious dock maintenance fees."
Hannah stared at him, her eyes wide. "Caleb called me right before he vanished. He said he found accounts hidden inside other accounts."
"He did," Daniel nodded. "And before he could bring me the final files, someone intercepted him. The police wrote it off as a runaway. But I don't lose people who work for me, Hannah. Especially not honest men."
"If you knew, why didn't you find him?" A tear spilled over her lashes, hot and sharp. "Why did Aaron have to die too?"
"Aaron didn't die in an accidental fall from a loading platform," Daniel said, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a lethal, suppressed fury. "His brakes were cut. The same night he discovered that the Whitlock shipping company was using his harbor repair crew as a front for drug trafficking."
Hannah felt the room spin. The air left her lungs entirely. Aaron knew. That was why he had been restless, why he had stayed late at the docks that cold night. He hadn't just been working; he had been investigating.
"Arthur Whitlock and his associates thought they could steal my ports, murder my men, and hide behind a corporate merger," Daniel continued, stepping closer and kneeling down beside the settee so he was looking directly into her eyes. "And you, Hannah... you walked into my mansion five months ago pretending to be a broken, destitute widow looking to pay off a fabricated debt, thinking you could find the answers yourself."
Hannah froze. She had spent months hiding her identity, changing her hair part, wearing plain uniforms, and keeping her head down. "You... you knew who I was all along?"
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Daniel reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead—near the jagged, uneven cut Claire had made hours earlier.
"I know everything that happens in my city, Hannah," he murmured, his thumb lingering on her cheekbone. "Especially who enters my house. I let you stay because I wanted to keep you safe from the wolves circling the docks. But tonight..." His grey eyes darkened into a storm. "Tonight, the wolves bit the wrong person."
