Chapter 7 - The Cold Spring Cabin
By 4:30 AM, the sedan pulled off the paved highway onto a winding gravel path that snaked through dense pine trees near the banks of the Hudson River.
At the end of the road stood a weathered wooden boathouse sitting on heavy stilts over the water. A small wooden dock extended into the dark river, where a modest fishing boat sat moored under a blue tarp.
There were no streetlights here. Only the sound of wind rustling through the pines and the river crashing softly against the pilings.
Vincent cut the engine and headlights, letting the car sit in total darkness for two full minutes while he scanned the tree line for any signs of movement.
Satisfied, he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Let’s go.”
They walked up the wooden steps into the boathouse. The interior was cozy and rustic—exposed timber beams, a stone fireplace, a small kitchenette, and a leather sofa facing a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river.
Vincent immediately moved through the cabin, locking the heavy deadbolts and pulling the dark canvas blinds down over all the windows.
He turned on a single kerosene lamp on the dining table, filling the room with a warm, amber glow.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall,” Vincent said, pointing toward a small door. “Clean clothes in the closet. Shower. Get some rest.”
Mave looked at the tactical bag sitting on the table. “What about the ledger?”
“I’ll run the rest of the decryption while you sleep,” Vincent said. He pulled his SIG Sauer from its holster and set it on the table beside the lamp.
Mave didn't move toward the bathroom. Instead, she walked over to the dining table, standing opposite him in the soft yellow light.
“Vincent,” she said softly.
He looked up at her, his expression tired, the dark stubble on his jaw making him look far removed from the polished mafia boss who had walked into her office that morning.
“Thank you,” she said. “For stepping between me and Julian at the ballroom.”
Vincent looked at her for a long moment. He reached out across the table, his thumb gently catching a stray lock of her hair and tucking it behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her cheek, warm and calloused.
May you like
“I’ll always step between you and whatever’s coming, Mave,” he said softly. “Always.”
Mave leaned into his touch for a brief, electric second before turning toward the hallway to wash the dust and blood from her skin.
