Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary on Beacon HillThe night air outside St. Brendan's was biting, carrying the sharp scent of snow coming off Boston Harbor.
I set Maeve carefully into the front passenger seat of my black Bentley—the car I had driven alone without a chauffeur for the first time in ten years. I adjusted her seatbelt, draped my heavy wool coat over her shivering shoulders, and closed the door with a soft, solid thud.
The drive back to Beacon Hill was quiet. The streets of Boston were empty, bathed in the amber glow of streetlights and twinkling Christmas decorations. Beside me, Maeve lay her head back against the leather headrest, her eyes half-closed, exhausted from the pain medication the nurses had pumped into her system.
When I pulled up to the grand wrought-iron gates of my mansion on Chestnut Street, the automatic sensors chimed, swinging the gates open.
I parked in the private courtyard, walked around to the passenger side, and lifted her into my arms once more.
"I can walk, sir..." she mumbled sleepily, her hand clutching my shirt lapel.
"Keep quiet, Maeve," I said gently, carrying her up the grand marble steps into the foyer.
The mansion was warm, smelling of pine needles, polished mahogany, and beeswax. The massive Christmas tree I had ordered for the foyer stood lit in the corner, its gold ornaments reflecting off the pristine hardwood floors—floors Maeve had polished two days ago.
I did not carry her to the small staff quarters on the third floor.
I carried her straight up the grand staircase to the second floor, into the master guest suite—the room with the bay windows overlooking the gardens, equipped with a fireplace and plush velvet furnishings.
I set her down on the king-sized bed, pulling the thick down duvet over her body.
Maeve looked around the opulent room, her eyes wide with shock. "Mr. Vale... I can't stay in here. This is the master suite. My quarters are upstairs—"
"You are not cleaning this house tomorrow, Maeve," I said, dropping to one knee beside the bed, unlacing her worn leather boots and setting them gently on the rug. "You are resting. I have already called my private physician, Dr. Hayes. He will be here in twenty minutes with proper pain medication and a private nurse."
Maeve stared at me, tears welling in her eyes again. "Why are you doing this for me?"
I paused, looking at her bruised, pale face, remembering the three years she had spent quietly serving me—remembering how she knew I wrote with my left hand, how she remembered the date my brother died, how she cared for a cold, empty house without ever asking for a single word of thanks.
"Because for three years, you made this house feel like a home, Maeve," I murmured softly, my thumb gently tracing her uninjured cheekbone. "And because I do not let monsters hurt the people I care about."
She closed her eyes, a single tear spilling over her lashes, and let out a soft breath as the exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep.
I stood up, walked out of the bedroom, and closed the heavy oak door quietly behind me.
In the hallway, I pulled my private phone from my pocket and dialed an encrypted number.
It rang once.
"Boss?" Marco, my chief of security, answered instantly.
"Marco," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark it made the air in the corridor freeze. "Assemble the primary crew from the South Boston piers. Twelve men. Fully armed."
"Where are we going, Callum?" Marco asked, his tone sharpening into lethal focus.
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I looked down at my knuckles, still carrying the faint scent of the hospital room, my gray eyes burning with cold, unyielding fire.
"We are going to Charlestown," I commanded. "Cormac Sullivan made a mistake tonight. I'm going to make sure he doesn't live to see Christmas morning."
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