Chapter 4 - The Fortress on Beacon Hill
Two days later, against Mave’s fierce objections, the hospital discharged her not to the damp, third-floor walkup on Border Street, but into the back of a black armored Mercedes-Maybach.
"My clothes are at home," Mave protested, sitting stiffly in the buttery leather seat, her left arm immobilized in a high-grade black orthopedic sling. "Finn’s school books are there. His asthma inhaler is in the medicine cabinet."
"Everything you own has already been packed and cataloged by professionals," Rafe said without looking up from his tablet. He sat beside her, exuding an air of calm authority that drove her crazy. "Your landlord received three months' rent in advance to terminate the lease immediately. You will not be returning to that building."
"You can't just evict me from my own life!"
Rafe shut off the tablet and turned his full attention to her. His gaze was steady, chillingly practical.
"The man who hit you was an operative for Vincenzo Moretti. Moretti knows that Sofia survived because of a server named Mave Donovan. If my men could find your address in twelve minutes, Moretti’s men could find it in twenty. Do you want to take Finn back to a building with a broken front lock and no security cameras?"
Mave fell silent. She looked out the window at the brick brownstones of Boston blurring past, her throat tight with frustration and fear. He was right, and she hated him for it.
The car turned onto a private, cobblestone lane off Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill. It pulled up before an immense Federal-style mansion behind ten-foot wrought-iron gates lined with privacy hedges. Discreet men in dark coats stood at the perimeter, their hands resting loosely near their jackets.
Finn, who was sitting opposite them next to Sofia, pressed his nose against the tinted glass. "Is this a castle, Mavey?"
Sofia laughed, her hazel eyes bright. "Almost, Finn. It’s an old house, but it has a library with three secret doors and a chef who makes miniature waffles whenever you ask."
"Mini waffles?" Finn’s eyes went as wide as saucers.
When the car stopped, Rafe bypassed the chauffeur and opened Mave’s door himself. He offered his hand. Mave stared at his outstretched palm, hesitant, before placing her cold, slender fingers in his warm, calloused grip. The contact sent an unexpected shock of electricity through her veins.
His grip was remarkably gentle as he helped her navigate the curb, ensuring she didn't jar her shattered shoulder.
The interior of the mansion was a masterclass in quiet, generational wealth: herringbone oak floors, towering oil paintings, sweeping double staircases, and the faint, comforting crackle of a limestone fireplace burning birch logs in the grand foyer.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a neat chignon approached, bowing her head slightly. "Welcome home, Mr. Collazo. Miss Sofia. Ms. Donovan, your suite is prepared on the second floor west wing. It connects directly with young Master Finn’s room."
"Thank you, Elena," Rafe said. He turned to Mave. "Elena is our housekeeper. She will attend to whatever you need. If you attempt to carry so much as a teacup with that left arm, she has strict orders to notify me."
"I don't need a babysitter, Mr. Collazo," Mave said flatly.
"You need to heal," Rafe replied, stepping closer, his presence immediately shrinking the cavernous room around them. "And as long as you are under my roof, you call me Rafe."
Before Mave could retort, heavy footsteps echoed down the grand hall.
A tall man with silver-streaked hair and gold-rimmed glasses walked into the foyer, carrying a sleek medical satchel.
"Dr. Vance," Rafe greeted him, nodding.
Mave’s breath hitched. She recognized the face from medical journals and online forums she had desperately scoured at two in the morning on her phone. Dr. Robert Vance was the Chief of Pediatric Cardiothoracic Surgery at Brigham and Women’s—a world-renowned specialist with an eighteen-month waiting list.
"Rafe," Dr. Vance said, shaking Rafe’s hand before turning to Mave with a warm, grandfatherly smile. "You must be Mave. And this young man must be Finn."
Finn clutched his stuffed bear tighter, shyly stepping behind Mave’s skirt.
"Dr. Vance..." Mave stammered, her voice shaking. "We... we don't have an appointment. Finn isn't on your schedule."
"He is now," Dr. Vance said gently. "Mr. Collazo had his records delivered to my office yesterday. I reviewed the echocardiograms. Finn has a subaortic stenosis combined with a bicuspid aortic valve that is beginning to show signs of insufficiency. It should have been surgically addressed six months ago."
"The hospital... the approval process was stalled," Mave whispered, shame and sorrow burning in her eyes. "The insurance company required three more diagnostic panels before they would authorize the pre-op review..."
"Insurance will not be a factor here, Ms. Donovan," Dr. Vance said firmly. "I have reserved an operating theater for Finn on Thursday morning. We are going to fix this boy's heart, and he is going to run until he's tired, just like every other nine-year-old."
Mave felt her knees go weak.
The weight that had rested on her shoulders since her mother died four years ago—the suffocating, relentless terror of waking up every morning wondering if Finn’s heart would simply stop beating—cracked down the middle.
Her balance slipped.
Before she could hit the marble floor, Rafe’s right arm caught her around the waist, pulling her flush against his broad chest. His grip was an iron band, keeping her steady, holding the broken pieces of her world together.
"Breathe, Mave," Rafe murmured close to her ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her ribs. "I told you. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
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Tears spilled over Mave’s cheeks, soaking into the lapel of his shirt. For the first time in her adult life, she didn't fight back. She rested her forehead against his chest, clutching his lapel, and wept.
***
