Chapter 4 - THE BROOKLINE SANCTUARY
The SUV turned down a long, winding stone driveway framed by ancient oak trees, coming to a stop before a grand, three-story stone estate nestled in the quiet hills of Brookline.
Iron security gates clicked shut behind them. Four armed guards in dark suits moved discreetly along the perimeter.
Damon stepped out first, extending his hand to help Adriana down.
The front doors were opened by Mrs. Gable, a kindly woman in her late fifties with grey hair pulled back in a neat bun, who had managed Damon’s household for over a decade.
“Mr. Cross,” Mrs. Gable said, her eyes widening as she saw the pale, wet, pregnant woman standing beside him. “Goodness gracious...”
“Mrs. Gable,” Damon instructed calmly. “This is Adriana Voss. Prepare the primary guest suite on the second floor. Call Dr. Harrison and tell him I need a full maternal checkup performed here within the hour.”
“Right away, sir,” Mrs. Gable nodded without a single question, immediately stepping forward to help take Adriana’s damp coat. “Come along, dear. Let’s get you into a warm bath and some soft clothes.”
Adriana looked back at Damon, her hazel eyes filled with uncertainty.
“Damon... I don't know how I can ever repay you for this,” she whispered.
“You don't owe me anything, Adriana,” Damon replied, his dark eyes softening as he looked at her. “Eli was my brother. Taking care of his family isn't a favor. It’s my duty.”
He watched Mrs. Gable lead her up the grand oak staircase before turning toward his private study at the end of the hall.
Vance stepped up beside him.
“Boss?” Vance asked in a low tone. “What are your orders regarding Walter Marlowe?”
Damon walked into his study, switching on a single brass desk lamp that cast long shadows across shelves of leather-bound books and framed blueprints of Boston’s harbor.
“Walter Marlowe thinks he’s safe because he operates through shell companies and political favors,” Damon said, pulling a leather binder from his desk drawer. “He sent a hitman to take my life, killed Eli, and spent six months threatening a pregnant woman.”
He opened the binder, revealing years of financial audits, offshore property records, and private intelligence on Marlowe’s inner circle.
“Call Marcus and Lucas,” Damon ordered, referring to his top security leads. “I want Walter Marlowe’s private residence placed under total surveillance by midnight. I want every bank account connected to Marlowe Construction frozen by morning. And find out where Celeste Marlowe went after my men threw her out of St. Cordova.”
“Understood, Mr. Cross,” Vance nodded grimly. “And the truck driver from six months ago?”
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Damon looked down at a photograph of Eli Voss smiling at a bakery opening six years ago.
“Find him,” Damon commanded. “He’s hiding somewhere in New England. Offer him a choice: he testifies against Walter Marlowe to the Federal District Attorney, or he answers to me.”
