Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Moretti Syndicate
The morning sun broke over Boston Harbor, casting long, sharp shadows across the limestone courtyards of the Colazzo estate.
Inside the private kitchen, a team of three professional chefs moved with quiet efficiency, preparing breakfast. But Maeve wasn't in the kitchen; she was pacing the length of the grand master suite assigned to her, dressed in a soft cashmere lounge set that felt like silk against her healing skin.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
"Come in," Maeve called out.
Marco, the granite-faced enforcer who had pinned the assassin to the floor the night before, stepped into the room holding a secure satellite tablet. His expression was grim.
"Ms. Donovan. Boss sent me to brief you before he returns from the hospital," Marco said, holding out the tablet. "Dr. Vance successfully completed Finn’s surgery an hour ago. Your brother is currently recovering in a private, guarded VIP pediatric suite. He’s stable, and the doctors say his prognosis is one hundred percent positive."
Maeve let out a ragged, sob-like laugh, her hands flying to cover her mouth as the crushing weight of the last three years finally slid off her shoulders. "He's... he's going to be okay?"
"He's running circles around the nurses in his head already, according to the head pediatric resident," Marco nodded, a faint ghost of a smile touching his rugged face. "However, that brings us to the second piece of intelligence."
He tapped the screen of the tablet, bringing up a surveillance photograph of a dark, smoke-filled poker room downtown.
"The assassin from Saltline last night wasn't a lone freelancer," Marco continued, his voice dropping into a professional, tactical cadence. "Our interrogation squad broke him at a safehouse in Southie three hours ago. He was on the payroll of the Moretti syndicate—specifically, Vincent Moretti Jr."
Maeve’s blood ran cold. "The Moretti family? Why would they target Cecily?"
"Because the Morettis have been trying to muscle in on our maritime shipping contracts at the docks for six months," Marco explained. "Rafe refused to yield an inch. When diplomacy failed, Moretti decided to hit where it hurts most: breaking the family by targeting the boss’s sister."
Marco turned the tablet around, showing a new document—an encrypted police report and financial ledger.
"Moretti doesn't know we captured his hitman alive," Marco said. "Right now, he thinks the attempt failed because of random police intervention. But Rafe is moving fast. The boss is currently dismantling Moretti’s primary laundering front on Atlantic Avenue as we speak."
Before Maeve could process the sheer scale of the brewing war, the heavy double doors of the suite swung open.
Rafe walked in. He had discarded his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his knuckles bore faint, fresh scrapes. There was an intoxicating, terrifying aura of raw power radiating off him—the smell of gunsmoke, expensive cologne, and absolute dominance.
"Marco, leave us," Rafe commanded without taking his eyes off Maeve.
"Boss," Marco nodded, turning and slipping out of the room like a ghost.
Rafe walked straight toward Maeve, stopping just inches away. He looked her up and down, noting the color returning to her cheeks and the lack of tension in her shoulders.
"You went to the hospital," Maeve whispered, looking at his bruised knuckles. "You checked on Finn."
"I was there when he woke up from the anesthesia," Rafe said quietly, his dark eyes softening as he looked down at her. "He asked for his big sister. I told her he’d be waiting for you in his private suite by sunset."
Maeve’s eyes welled with tears. She didn't think; she simply closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest.
For a second, Rafe stiffened in absolute shock—no one touched the head of the Colazzo family without an invitation. But a heartbeat later, his massive arms came up, wrapping completely around her, holding her with a fierce, protective gentleness that made her feel safer than she had ever felt in her entire life.
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"Thank you, Rafe," she murmured against his shirt.
"Don't thank me yet, Maeve," Rafe whispered into her hair, his voice dropping into a lethal purr. "Because tonight, Vincent Moretti is going to learn what happens when you touch what belongs to me. And you are going to watch."
