Chapter 2 - The House on the Waterfront
Claire tried to pull her hand back, but his gloved grip was like a steel vise.
"I took it," she stammered, her breath coming in ragged white puffs. "From my husband's room. Nathan Caldwell."
The man’s eyes flickered at the name. "Caldwell. The judge’s son-in-law."
"He's not my husband," Claire said, her voice rising with a desperate edge that surprised even herself. "Not anymore. He was going to kill me."
The tall man didn't answer immediately. He examined the ring again, turning her thumb slightly under the light. His gloved thumb brushed over the blood smeared across the ruby, wiping it clean with a slow, deliberate movement.
"Get up," he said.
"What?"
"Get up," he repeated, releasing her wrist and standing to his full height. "You're freezing to death in a doorway wearing a dress that costs more than my driver's car. Get up before I have Viktor throw you over his shoulder."
"Who are you?" Claire asked, pressing her back against the bakery door. "Are you with Nathan?"
The man let out a short, dark sound that might have been a laugh if there had been any humor in it. "If I were with Nathan Caldwell, little bride, you would already be in the trunk of this car. My name is Matteo Vane. And the ring on your thumb belongs to my family."
He turned his back on her, walking toward the rear door of the sedan. "Put her in the back, Viktor. Use the heated seats. If she dies of hypothermia before she tells me why Caldwell had Nikolai's seal, I'll be very annoyed."
Ten minutes later, Claire was sitting in the back of the black sedan, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that smelled of leather and expensive tobacco. The car moved silently through the rain-slicked streets of Boston, leaving the North End behind and heading north toward the private coastal roads of Marblehead.
Beside her, Matteo Vane sat in silence, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. His profile was sharp—a strong jaw, a straight nose with a slight break near the bridge, and a faint scar that ran from his earlobe down into his collar.
He didn't look like a businessman. He looked like an apex predator who wore five-thousand-dollar suits because armor was no longer necessary.
"Where are you taking me?" Claire asked, her fingers clutching the warm blanket around her neck.
"To my home," Matteo said without turning his head. "Where you can dry your hair, drink hot tea, and explain to me why a small-town corrupt politician thought he could hold the crest of the Vane Syndicate in his dresser drawer."
"He said it belonged to a business associate," Claire offered quietly.
Matteo turned his head then. His pale gray eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity. "Nikolai Moretti was not his associate. He was my uncle. He was murdered six months ago in a warehouse fire in South Boston. The ring was stolen from his body before the fire burned out."
Claire felt the blood drain from her face. "Nathan... Nathan told me he got it from a collector."
"Nathan lied," Matteo said softly. "Which is not surprising. What is surprising is that his bride managed to steal it from under his nose while wearing forty pounds of silk."
The car turned down a long, dark driveway flanked by iron gates and tall hemlock trees. At the end of the drive stood a massive stone estate overlooking the ocean. Waves crashed against the dark cliffs below, sending spray high into the night air.
The house was dark except for warm yellow light spilling from the lower-floor windows.
When the car stopped, Matteo opened his door and stepped out. He didn't wait for his men. He opened Claire's door, reached inside, and picked her up as easily as if she were a child.
"I can walk," Claire gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his shoulders.
"Your feet are bleeding, Ms. Whitmore," Matteo said, his voice flat as he carried her up the wide granite steps toward the front door. "And tracking mud onto my Persian rugs is a offense I rarely forgive."
He carried her into a grand foyer lined with dark wood, oil paintings, and towering marble fireplaces. A housekeeper—a severe-looking elderly woman in a dark gray dress—was waiting near the stairs with a stack of fresh towels.
"Set up the guest suite on the second floor, Elena," Matteo ordered, setting Claire down on a velvet bench near the fire. "Bring soup. Hot tea. And call Dr. Miller to look at her feet."
"Yes, Mr. Vane," the woman bowed slightly and moved away quickly.
May you like
Matteo stood over Claire, looking down at her wet hair, her tear-stained face, and the giant platinum ring sitting awkward and blood-stained on her thumb.
"Now," he said, pulling off his black leather gloves, one finger at a time. "Tell me everything about Nathan Caldwell. And don't leave out the part where he planned to kill you."
