Chapter 2 - The Threshold of Iron
Dominic stared at Maeve Carter across the heavy mahogany desk. The question hung in the stale air of the library like a challenge.
“Is he allowed outside at all?”
Dante Russo shifted his weight beside the fireplace, a low rumble of amusement in his chest. “She’s got nerve, Boss. I’ll give her that. Most applicants are shaking so hard they can’t remember their own middle names.”
Dominic did not smile. His gray eyes, cold and flat as winter ice, scanned Maeve’s face, looking for the telltale micro-expressions of a liar, an operative, or an opportunist. He found none. There was only a weary, stubborn resilience that reminded him uncomfortably of Claire.
“The east courtyard is secure,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into its low, resonant register. “It has twelve-foot stone walls, infrared sensors, and two guards stationed at the wrought-iron gate twenty-four hours a day. He goes nowhere else. If you take him out there, you stay within ten feet of him at all times. You do not speak to visitors. You do not accept deliveries. If a bird drops a twig from the sky, you assume it’s a wire.”
Maeve met his gaze without blinking. “I didn't ask for a prison tour, Mr. Kane. I asked if a seven-year-old boy who hasn't seen the sun in fourteen months could feel it on his face.”
The silence in the room stretched thin. Dante stopped smiling. For a second, it looked as though Dominic might reach for the drawer and dismiss her with a severance check that exceeded her annual salary.
Instead, Dominic stood up. He towered over the desk, his broad shoulders filling out the tailored charcoal suit.
“Start tomorrow morning,” Dominic said. “You live in the guest quarters in the east wing, down the hall from Eli. You eat what the kitchen prepares for him. You do not lock your door.”
“I prefer my door locked,” Maeve said quietly.
“In this house,” Dominic replied, his tone absolute, “locks are privileges reserved for people I trust. And I don’t trust you, Miss Carter. I expect you to prove me wrong every single day until I forget why I hired you.”
By the second week, Dominic had more camera feeds on his desk than shipping manifests.
He watched her through the lens hidden in the stuffed bear, through the pinhole camera in the smoke detector, and through the wide-angle optic mounted above the tall bookshelves. He watched her change Eli’s sheets with practiced, gentle efficiency. He watched her warm lavender lotion in her hands before massaging the boy’s atrophied calves.
What bothered Dominic wasn’t that she was slacking off. It was that she wasn't.
She talked to Eli as if he were a normal child. She read him adventure stories—Treasure Island, The Chronicles of Narnia—changing her voice for the characters while Eli stared blankly at the ceiling. She played old jazz records on a portable turntable she had brought from her apartment, humming softly when the trumpet solos soared.
One afternoon, Dominic watched via monitor as Maeve sat on the edge of the bed and held up two index cards.
“Okay, captain,” she said softly. “One blink for jazz. Two for silence. We’re voting on dinner music.”
Eli lay motionless beneath the pale blue blankets. His dark lashes remained still for several seconds. Dominic’s hand hovered over the keyboard in his office, his chest tightening with the familiar, dull ache of hopelessness.
Then, Eli’s left eyelid twitched. Once.
May you like
Maeve’s face lit up with a brilliant, unfeigned smile. “Jazz it is. You have terrible taste in brass instruments, but I respect the commitment.”
Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers drumming a slow tattoo against the armrest. What is her game? he asked himself. No nurse stayed this patient without a secondary objective. People with clean motives didn't look at a mafia boss’s house with that kind of steady, unyielding pity.
