Chapter 4 - The Safehouse on Cliff Walk
The Mercedes sedan cut through the rain-slicked coastal roads of Newport, its headlights slicing through the dark Atlantic fog.
Neveah sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the sprawling wrought-iron gates of the Perry estate loomed ahead, parting automatically for the car as they rolled up the winding driveway toward a cliffside stone manor that looked like something out of a nineteenth-century Gothic novel.
“You didn’t have to bring me here,” Neveah said, her voice tight with nervous tension as Frank Calder parked near the grand mahogany front doors.
“Marcus has crossed from corporate embezzlement into direct intimidation,” Leandro said, stepping out into the cold sea breeze and opening her door before Frank could reach it. “Until we dismantle his network at the board meeting on Monday morning, you are not safe in the city.”
Inside, the mansion was vast, warm, and utterly silent. A housekeeper named Mrs. Gable—a severe-looking woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun—met them in the foyer, offering Neveah a steaming mug of tea and showing her to a guest suite on the second floor that overlooked the dark, churning waters of the ocean below.
Neveah couldn't sleep.
She sat by the bay window wrapped in a thick wool blanket, watching the lighthouse beam sweep across the horizon. Her life had turned upside down in less than a week. Seven days ago, she was scrubbing diner counters and dodging sticky-fingered customers on Federal Hill. Now she was sitting in a mafia boss’s cliffside fortress, holding the digital evidence that could destroy his family’s primary corporate rival.
A soft knock sounded at her door.
When she opened it, Leandro was standing in the dimly lit hallway. He had discarded his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the strong line of his throat.
“You’re still awake,” he observed.
“Adrenaline is a powerful stimulant,” Neveah replied, leaning against the doorframe. “What happens on Monday, Leandro?”
It was the first time she had used his first name without his title.
Leandro paused, his dark eyes flickering with a sudden, intense warmth.
“On Monday morning, the board of directors meets at Terminal 4,” Leandro said, stepping closer. “Marcus will present a motion for emergency financial restructuring, claiming that our shipping division is failing and proposing that Vanguard Holdings take over our logistics contracts to save the company.”
“And you’ll present the audit,” Neveah said.
“I’ll present your audit,” Leandro corrected softly. “Every single transaction, every shell company, every fraudulent customs manifest. When the board sees that Marcus has been bleeding the company to buy up their own neighborhoods, his allies will abandon him faster than rats from a sinking ship.”
“And Stella?” Neveah asked hesitantly. “Does she know what her uncle is doing?”
Leandro’s expression darkened. “Stella is selfish, spoiled, and blind. But she isn’t a traitor. When she finds out Marcus tried to use her petty restaurant Tantrum as a distraction while he looted the family vault, she’ll probably try to run him over with her sports car.”
Neveah let out a small, involuntary laugh.
Leandro stepped closer still. The space between them narrowed until Neveah could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He reached out, his hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her jawline, tracing the faint, fading outline of the bruise Stella had left on her wrist.
“She left a mark on you,” Leandro whispered, his voice dropping into a register that made her breath catch.
“It’s fading,” Neveah whispered back.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Leandro said fiercely. “The moment my sister touched you, I should have thrown her out of that restaurant on her head. But instead, I watched to see if you would break.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone around me bends,” Leandro said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute, devastating sincerity. “Politicians, bankers, enforcers, my own family—they all bend because of who I am. You didn't bend. You put fifty dollars on her plate and told her to dry-clean her coat.”
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Before Neveah could answer, his hand slid around the back of her neck, tilting her face upward. When his lips met hers, it wasn't a gentle, polite kiss. It was a collision of long-suppressed tension, of hunger and survival, of two completely different worlds crashing together in the dark.
Neveah’s hands gripped the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer as the sound of the ocean outside faded into total insignificance.
