Chapter 2 - The House on the Hill
Penny felt as though the oxygen had been sucked entirely out of the vehicle. The roar of the engine faded into a dull, far-away hum.
“What?” she whispered. Her fingers dug so hard into the leather seats that her knuckles turned stark white. “You’re... you’re lying. You’re crazy. Why would anyone shoot at me? I’m a waitress! I make fourteen dollars an hour plus tips! I don't owe money to loan sharks, I don't deal drugs, I don't even have a parking ticket!”
Matteo didn't interrupt her panic. He sat with his hands folded loosely in his lap, watching her with a terrifyingly serene patience.
“You are correct about your background, Miss Higgins,” he said calmly. “Your record is immaculate. You pay your taxes, you buy cheap grocery store wine, and you visit your mother every Tuesday and Thursday. But you work at the Velvet Room. And three weeks ago, you served a private dinner in the North End suite.”
Penny’s mind spun violently backwards. Three weeks ago. A Tuesday night. The club had been closed for a private corporate event—or what Marcus, the manager, had claimed was a private event. Four men in dark suits sitting in the corner booth, drinking hundred-dollar scotch and speaking in quiet, low tones.
“I... I served them steaks,” Penny stammered, her voice shaking violently. “I didn't listen to them. I never listen to them! I just keep the water glasses full and look at the floor!”
“It doesn't matter what you heard,” Matteo said. His tone was clipped, objective, like a physician delivering a terminal diagnosis. “What matters is who was sitting at that table. One of those men was Arthur Vance—the deputy director of the regional organized crime task force. The other was Salvatore Rossi.”
Penny gasped softly. Even a waitress living in South Boston knew the name Rossi. The Rossi family was the older, bloodier rival to the Conti empire.
“Rossi is currently trying to convince his captains that I am encroaching on his harbor logistics,” Matteo continued, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. “If Vance was meeting with Rossi, it means an alliance was being formed to dismantle my family's operations. And the man who shot at us tonight—the man in the gray jacket—is a known freelance contractor under Vance’s personal payroll.”
“So... so they think I saw them together?” Penny’s voice rose an octave, hysterical edges frayed at the margins. “They think I’m a witness?!”
“Precisely.” Matteo turned his head to look at her. “If Vance realized a civilian witnessed an illegal, off-the-books meeting between a federal director and a syndicate boss, he would not take the risk of you being questioned by the grand jury. He ordered a clean-up. You were the target, Penny. I simply happened to be standing in front of you when he took the shot.”
The reality of his words crashed over her like a freezing wave. The wet floor. The spilled scotch. Her foolish, hot-headed anger. If she hadn't stepped up to Matteo Conti—if she hadn't shoved her finger into his chest and demanded he move out of her way—she would have been standing alone near that oak pillar. The bullet wouldn't have grazed the wood. It would have passed directly through her chest.
She sank deep into the leather seat, pulling her knees up toward her chest, wrapping her arms around her shivering frame. “Oh God,” she choked out, staring wildly at her worn sneakers. “Oh God, my mom... who is going to take care of my mom?”
“I will,” Matteo said.
Penny snapped her head up, her eyes wide.
“My people have already paid your mother’s facility through the end of the fiscal year,” Matteo said smoothly, as if reporting on a mundane business transaction. “A private security detail, disguised as orderlies, has been stationed outside her door since 1:00 AM. She is safer tonight than she has been her entire life.”
Penny stared at him in utter disbelief. “You... you touched my mother’s care?”
“I secured her,” Matteo corrected softly. “Because I knew that if you were worrying about her, you would do something foolish—like running back to your apartment or calling the local police. And both of those actions would get you killed.”
The SUV slowed down, making a sharp right turn through a pair of massive, wrought-iron security gates that hummed open automatically. They rolled up a long, winding driveway flanked by towering, ancient pine trees draped in heavy winter fog.
At the top of the hill stood a sprawling, stone estate. It looked like an old English manor house transplanted into the lush greenery of Brookline—gothic arches, slate roofing, and tall leaded-glass windows glowing with warm, golden light.
The SUV ground to a smooth halt beneath a stone portico. Instantly, two armed men in dark tactical gear stepped out of the shadows, opening Matteo’s door.
Matteo stepped out first, extending a hand back into the cabin toward Penny. “Welcome to my home, Miss Higgins. Step out, please.”
Penny looked at his offered hand. His fingers were long, blunt, and scarred across the knuckles. She ignored it, scrambling out on her own shaky legs, her heels hitting the cold stone pavement. The crisp night air smelled of pine needles, wet earth, and latent danger.
“I’m a prisoner here,” she said, her voice small, shivering in her thin black work blouse.
Matteo withdrew his hand smoothly, tucking it into his trouser pocket. “You are a guest whose presence is mandatory for her own survival. There is a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
Matteo didn't argue. He gestured toward the grand oak front doors, which were swept open by an elderly, impeccably dressed butler. “Inside, Penny. It’s freezing, and you’re bleeding.”
Penny paused, frowning. “I’m not bleeding.”
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Matteo pointed a single finger toward her knee. She looked down. Her black stockings were torn, and a thin line of dried blood ran down her shin where she had scraped against the bar during his reckless rescue. She hadn't even felt it.
“Go inside,” Matteo repeated softly, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Mrs. Gable will attend to your injuries, and then we will discuss how you are going to survive the next forty-eight hours.”
