Chapter 4 - The Safe House in Beacon Hill
By two o'clock in the morning, the storm over Boston had turned into a full gale.
A heavily armored black Maybach slid quietly up the cobblestone driveway of a private, historic estate nestled in the most secure, secluded corner of Beacon Hill. The property was surrounded by ten-foot brick walls, security cameras, and discrete iron gates that opened only via biometric clearance.
Damon stepped out of the vehicle first, holding a large black umbrella over the rear door as he opened it.
Adriana sat inside, looking out at the magnificent Georgian-style mansion with hesitation in her eyes. After she had collapsed from exhaustion upstairs at the restaurant, Damon had brought in his private physician, Dr. Harrison, who had run a thorough checkup. The diagnosis had been severe exhaustion, low blood sugar, and mild dehydration. The doctor had made it explicitly clear: Adriana needed absolute bed rest, proper nutrition, and zero stress for the remaining four weeks of her pregnancy.
“I’m not staying here permanently,” Adriana stated firmly, keeping her hands wrapped around her belly as she looked at Damon.
“It’s a secure house,” Damon replied calmly, holding out his hand to help her step out onto the dry stone portico. “No one outside my inner circle knows this property exists. It’s registered under a shell corporation in Delaware. You’ll have a private floor, a full-time nurse, a private chef, and total privacy.”
“And bodyguards,” she added bitterly.
“Yes,” Damon admitted without apology. “Two guards at the front gate, two at the rear. Because whether you like it or not, Adriana, the world is dangerous right now. The Irish faction that hit Eli six months ago is still active, and if they ever discover that Eli’s widow is alive and carrying his child, they will use you to get to me.”
Adriana looked into his eyes, seeing the absolute, unyielding determination in his gaze. She knew he wasn't lying. The underworld didn't respect pregnant women or innocent children; they respected leverage.
With a heavy sigh, she accepted his hand and stepped out of the car.
The interior of the mansion was warm, quiet, and grand. Oak floors stretched beneath plush Persian rugs, and a wide grand staircase curved up toward the second floor. A middle-aged woman in a neat grey uniform was waiting in the foyer.
“This is Mrs. Gable,” Damon introduced. “She runs the household. She worked as an obstetric nurse for fifteen years before coming to work for me. She will see to everything you need.”
Mrs. Gable offered a warm, maternal smile. “Welcome, my dear. I’ve prepared the master guest suite upstairs. Fresh linens, warm tea, and the bath is drawn.”
Adriana looked between Mrs. Gable and Damon. For six months, she had been sleeping on a lumpy mattress in a cold, drafty room in Dorchester, waking up every two hours to the sound of police sirens and shouting neighbors. Her body ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue that no amount of pride could ignore.
“Thank you,” Adriana murmured softly to Mrs. Gable.
She turned to Damon. “Where are you going?”
“My quarters are in the west wing,” Damon replied, keeping a respectful distance. “I won't intrude on your space. Eat, rest, and sleep. We will talk in the morning.”
He pulled the steel watch from his pocket, setting it gently on the marble console table beside the entryway.
“This belongs to your son,” Damon said quietly. “I’m just holding it until he’s born.”
Adriana looked at the watch, then up at Damon. For the first time since he had found her kneeling in the shattered glass, the cold suspicion in her eyes softened by a fraction.
May you like
“Goodnight, Damon,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Adriana.”
