Chapter 2 - The Brownstone Fortress
The vehicle slid silently through the wrought-iron gates of a secure limestone carriage house tucked away behind a row of towering elms in the Back Bay. The heavy wooden garage doors closed automatically behind them before the tires had even stopped rolling on the heated concrete floor.
Sam was out of the passenger door instantly, opening Nora’s side before she could even reach for the handle.
“Step out, Ms. Bennett. Watch your step, the floor is wet.”
Nora ignored his outstretched hand, sliding across the leather seat and planting her worn-out black flats firmly on the ground. She stood up, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist against the damp autumn chill.
The carriage house was enormous, housing a fleet of black sedans and SUVs, with a private elevator leading directly up into the main residence.
“I’m not staying here,” Nora said, planting her feet as Vincent stepped out behind her. “I’m going home. I’ll take a cab. I’ll walk. I don't care.”
Vincent walked past her toward the private elevator, pressing his thumb against a biometric scanner. The heavy steel doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
“You can walk out those gates whenever you like, Nora,” Vincent said over his shoulder, his voice completely level. “Of course, by the time you reach the corner of the alley, the three men who were waiting for you at the Velvet Room will likely finish the job they started. But please, don't let me keep you from your cat.”
Nora stopped dead in her tracks.
She stared at his broad back, hating him for being right, hating him even more for saying it with such casual certainty.
With a frustrated groan, she marched across the garage and stepped into the elevator, shoving past him into the wood-paneled interior.
“You’re a terrible host,” she muttered.
“I’ve been told I lack warmth,” Vincent replied, pressing the button for the top floor.
The residence above was a masterclass in minimalist wealth—exposed brick walls, soaring ceilings, polished hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, choppy waters of the Charles River. It was clean, quiet, and completely devoid of the chaotic noise of the city she had known her entire life.
Sam vanished down a side hallway, leaving them alone in the vast open-plan kitchen.
Vincent walked over to a marble island, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a crystal tumbler and a bottle of amber scotch. He didn't offer her a drink, pouring two fingers into the glass before leaning back against the counter.
“Talk,” Nora demanded, crossing her arms. “Why would anyone want to kill a waitress? Unless... unless my brother got into more trouble down at the shipping docks.”
Vincent paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. His dark amber eyes narrowed slightly. “Your brother. Leo Bennett?”
“Don't tell me Leo owes your company money,” Nora groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I swear to God, if he’s been running card games in your warehouses again, I’m going to break his legs myself so I don't have to listen to my mother cry.”
“Leo doesn't owe me money,” Vincent said slowly, setting the glass down without drinking. “In fact, Leo was fired from the North Side docks six months ago for insubordination. That’s not why they were waiting for you.”
Nora looked up, her hazel eyes wide with confusion. “Then why?”
Before Vincent could answer, a soft chime echoed from the security console near the entryway.
Sam appeared from the hallway, his face tighter than granite, holding a printout of an encrypted dossier.
“Boss,” Sam said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “We ran facial recognition on the second gunman we neutralized at the club. He wasn't one of Salvatore’s men.”
Vincent’s posture stiffened instantly. The casual menace in his frame vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of an apex predator.
“Who was he?”
“Federal Marshals,” Sam said flatly. “Or rather, a private security contractor currently on retainer with the U.S. Attorney’s office in the Eastern District.”
Silence dropped over the kitchen like a lead weight.
May you like
Vincent slowly turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto Nora with a dawning, terrifying realization.
“Federal Marshals,” Vincent repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “Nora... what is your mother’s maiden name?”
