Chapter 2 - The Harbor Pavilion Quarantine
The black armored Maybach glided silently along the cobblestone corridors of Fells Point, turning into the private, gated compound of the Cassan Maritime Sovereign Trust on the deepwater bluffs.
The property was an impenetrable fortress of twelve waterfront acres: ancient weeping willows, ten-foot stone walls topped with razor-wire sensors, and a four-story limestone estate overlooking the dark, churning waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Armed tactical operators in dark wool coats patrolled the perimeter with trained mastiffs, while high-definition thermal cameras swept every maritime slipway.
I sat in the rear leather cabin, shivering despite the dual climate controls humming at seventy-four degrees.
My bruised wrist was still wrapped in Alaric’s white silk handkerchief. Across from me sat Alaric, having removed his ruined shirt, wearing a fresh charcoal cashmere sweater and tailored trousers provided by his driver. His face was an unreadable mask of iron, but his eyes never left my pale, exhausted face.
Sitting between my knees, clutching a small stuffed lamb with one floppy ear, was my four-year-old daughter, Lily.
Ten minutes after Alaric intercepted Merritt in the restaurant, three of his private security operators had breached our townhouse in Canton, legally extracting Lily from the care of the corrupt babysitter Merritt had hired to keep her under surveillance.
Lily looked up at the towering syndicate boss with wide, solemn blue eyes.
"Mister," Lily whispered, her small voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "Are you the man who fixes the broken boats?"
Alaric looked down at her. The lethal, terrifying darkness that had frozen an entire restaurant dissolved into an expression of astonishing, unreserved gentleness.
He slowly lowered his hand, his calloused thumb lightly brushing the plush ear of her lamb.
"I fix many broken things, little bird," Alaric answered softly. "What broke your boat?"
Lily pointed her small finger at the handkerchief around my wrist. "Daddy squeezed Mommy’s hands until she dropped the juice. He told her if she cried, the bad men would come and take me to the cold house."
A concussive, suffocating silence filled the interior of the Maybach.
Alaric did not speak for two full minutes. The muscle along his jaw ticked with a subterranean fury that made the heavy glass of the privacy partition vibrate.
The car stopped before the grand limestone entrance of the master pavilion.
Waiting on the wide stone terrace was Dr. Robert Sterling—seventy-two years old, silver-haired, the chief trauma surgeon who had served the Cassan family for thirty years—accompanied by two specialized pediatric nurses and Arthur Ross.
"Bring Miss Vance and her daughter into the private medical suite immediately," Alaric commanded, stepping out of the vehicle and lifting Lily into his arms with effortless, protective grace.
I tried to step onto the flagstones, but the cracked rib flared again, sending a blinding wave of nausea through my skull.
Before my knees could buckle, Alaric’s strong arm caught me around the waist. Without asking permission, he swept me off my feet, lifting me against his broad chest as easily as if I were made of feathers.
"Put me down, Mr. Cassan," I breathed, my face burning with embarrassment. "I can walk... I am just a waitress—"
"You are not a waitress, Clara," Alaric said, his deep baritone rumbling against my temple as he carried me through the bronze double doors into the warmth of the grand foyer. "You hold a Master of Science in Forensic Accounting from Johns Hopkins. You were the Chief Internal Auditor for the Port of Baltimore until Merritt Callaway framed you for a two-million-dollar wire fraud scheme two years ago."
I froze in his arms, the breath locking in my throat. "How... how do you know that?"
May you like
Alaric stopped beneath the soaring crystal chandelier of the great hall.
"Because your father, Thomas Vance, was my father’s sworn brother," Alaric revealed softly into the quiet room. "Thirty years ago, Thomas Vance built the deepwater berths at Dundalk. When my father was ambushed by the Philadelphia mob in 1996, Thomas took three rounds to the chest to pull my father out of the harbor. Your father died believing I would protect his bloodline. And for two years, I have been turning this city upside down looking for his daughter."
