Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Linoleum
The violent ringing in Maeve’s ears drowned out the chaos tearing through the dining room of The Salt Line. Shouts bounced off the mahogany walls, tables flipped, and the heavy thud of security guards subduing the attacker echoed in the background. But to Maeve, everything felt strangely weightless.
She lay on her side, the cold marble floor pressing against her cheek, stained with spilled Cabernet and her own blood. Every breath was a battle; the blow from the steel baton had fractured her shoulder blade and sent a shockwave of agonizing pain radiating down her spine. Yet, her fingers remained tightly knotted in the soft fabric of Cecily’s expensive dress.
"Let her go, sweetheart. You're safe now," a deep, velvety voice commanded.
Rafe Colazo was on his knees beside her, completely ignoring the diamond-clad socialites scrambling for the exits. The ruthless Don of the Boston underground—a man whose face never appeared in tabloids but whose name made city councilmen shake—was carefully unprying Maeve’s stiff fingers from his sister. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the dark aura of raw violence vibrating off his broad shoulders.
"Rafe, she took the hit for me," Cecily sobbed, her face pale as she was pulled away by two armed bodyguards. "He was going to kill me. She didn't even hesitate."
Rafe didn't answer his sister. His gray eyes, sharp as shattered flint, locked onto Maeve’s face. He slid a large, calloused hand behind her neck, supporting her head as her eyelids fluttered violently.
"Stay with me," Rafe ordered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, authoritative baritone. "What’s your name?"
"Maeve..." she managed to gasp out, a crimson bubble forming on her lip. "Finn... my brother... the hospital..."
"Save your breath, Maeve," Rafe muttered, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaped in his cheek. He slipped his other arm beneath her knees and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
"Sir, the ambulance is five minutes away," his underboss, a stern man named Dominic, reported as he rushed over.
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"Cancel it," Rafe barked, striding toward the private back exit while the remaining restaurant staff stared in absolute shock. "Call Dr. Vance. Tell him to prepare the private theater at the estate. If she dies in a public hospital because some low-level Irish mob rat wanted to send me a message, I’ll burn South Boston to the ground."
As the icy Boston night air hit Maeve’s face, she felt herself sinking into a deep, consuming darkness. The last sensation she registered was the scent of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and the steady, unbreakable thud of Rafe Colazo’s heart against her cheek.
