Chapter 6 - The Sanctuary on Elm Street
By three o'clock in the morning, the heavy rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog that blanketed the city in a ghost-like haze.
Maeve drove her beat-up Honda through the back alleys of the West Ward, avoiding the main avenues entirely. Arthur sat in the passenger seat, his dark coat pulled tight over his bandages, a low-brimmed wool cap hiding his swollen eye and distinct features. Brutus sat quietly in the back, his heavy head resting against the seat.
They pulled into the narrow, oil-stained alley behind a dilapidated three-story brick building on Elm Street.
"Up the fire escape," Maeve whispered, killing the engine. "The front entrance has a security camera that the landlord installed three years ago. It doesn't work, but I'm not taking chances."
Arthur didn't argue. Despite his severe injuries, he moved with remarkable, silent efficiency, taking the iron steps of the fire escape one at a time, his large hand resting on Brutus's harness to keep the heavy dog quiet.
Maeve unlocked the rusted window frame of her second-floor apartment, sliding it open, letting them scramble inside into the dark kitchen.
The apartment was tiny, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner, old books, and lavender soap. The furniture was a patchwork of thrift-store finds: a worn green velvet sofa, a small laminate kitchen table with two mismatched chairs, and a small bookshelf crammed with paperbacks.
Arthur stood in the center of the tiny living room, his head nearly touching the low ceiling, his pale eye taking in every detail of the space in three seconds.
"It's small," Maeve muttered defensively, locking the window and pulling the heavy blackout curtains closed. "And the heating goes off at four in the morning. So don't complain."
Arthur walked slowly over to the small kitchen table. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his heavy leather wallet, and laid it on the laminate surface.
"I am not in the habit of complaining about hospitality, Miss Nolan," Arthur said quietly.
He unzipped the wallet, pulling out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills—at least ten thousand dollars—and slid them across the table toward her.
Maeve looked at the money, then up at his face. "What is that?"
"Rent," Arthur replied flatly. "And compensation for the blood on your car seat."
Maeve’s cheeks flushed red. She pushed the stack of money right back across the table.
"I don't want your mob money," she said sharply. "I didn't bring you here to get paid."
Arthur’s eyebrow twitched slightly. "It is not 'mob money,' Maeve. It is currency. And you need it. Your rent is six days away, your car requires a new muffler, and you have forty-two dollars in your checking account."
Maeve gasped, her hands turning into fists at her sides. "You searched my purse again?!"
"Dr. Vance reviewed your bank statements while checking your ID," Arthur corrected her calmly, leaning his hips against the kitchen counter. "It was a standard security assessment. I do not stay in houses where the host might be tempted to sell my location for a quick reward."
"I would never—" Maeve started, her voice rising in anger.
"I know," Arthur interrupted softly, his gray eye fixing on her with a sudden, intense warmth that caught her completely off guard. "If you were the type of woman who sold people out, you would have left me to die behind that dumpster."
The anger drained out of Maeve, replaced by a strange, heavy quiet that seemed to fill the small kitchen.
Arthur looked down at the dog, who had already curled up on the small braided rug near the radiator.
"Brutus likes you," Arthur noted quietly. "He doesn't like anyone. He bit off the fingers of a loan shark who tried to touch my coat three months ago."
Maeve looked at the massive Corso, who let out a contented sigh and closed its eyes. "He was hurting. Anyone can see when an animal is hurting."
"Most people walk past the hurt, Maeve," Arthur murmured, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. "Most people close their eyes and accelerate."
He stepped closer to her, his massive frame blocking out the light from the small streetlamp outside the window. Up close, despite the bruises and bandages, he smelled of sandalwood, rain, and cold iron—a dangerous, intoxicating scent that made Maeve’s heart skip a beat.
"You didn't walk past," Arthur whispered, reaching out with a single, broad finger to gently tilt her chin upward so she had to look him in the eye. "Why?"
Maeve held his gaze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Because," she whispered back, "I know what it feels like to be chained to a wall while everyone walks past."
Arthur’s pale gray eye softened slightly, a deep, unreadable emotion flickering in its depths before he slowly pulled his hand back.
"The sofa is yours," Arthur said, turning toward the tiny hallway. "I will take the floor."
"No," Maeve said, shaking her head. "You have cracked ribs and twenty stitches in your side. You take the bed."
Arthur paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. "I do not take a woman's bed, Miss Nolan."
"In this house," Maeve said, crossing her arms over her chest, "the person who is bleeding takes the bed. Don't make me use the utility cutter on you again."
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A tiny, rare smile touched Arthur Romano’s lips—a flash of genuine warmth that transformed his harsh, ruthless face into something breathtakingly handsome.
"As you wish, Maeve," he murmured.
