Chapter 2 - The Fortress of Shadows
The drive lasted nearly an hour. Roman’s SUV was a soundproof cocoon of heated leather and polished mahogany. While Walter fell into an exhausted, deep sleep in the third row, wrapped in a cashmere blanket Vincent had begrudgingly fetched from the trunk, Roman made two phone calls.
The first was to a private physician. “Dr. Mercer. Meet my second car at the Grand Continental on 16th. You have an elderly patient arriving with severe respiratory distress. Treat him like my uncle. If he develops pneumonia under your watch, we will have a conversation you won't enjoy.”
The second call was shorter. “Dante. Clear the north wing kitchen. Have the dry storage unlocked. And tell the boys to put their shirts on. We have company.”
I watched the city lights dissolve into dark, wooded hills. We crossed into the secluded outskirts where massive stone walls rose out of the pine forests, crowned with razor wire disguised behind lush, dormant ivy. Black iron gates swept open automatically as the SUV approached, revealing a sprawling, gothic-revival estate that looked less like a home and more like a fortress built to withstand a siege.
This was Ravenwood.
Security cameras turned on their mountings as we swept up the circular driveway. Floodlights illuminated armed guards in dark coats patrolling the perimeter with Belgian Malinois straining at their leashes. Every man we passed moved with the tight, coiled discipline of a soldier in an active combat zone.
“Vincent,” Roman said as the vehicle came to a smooth halt beneath the stone portico. “Take Walter to the hotel. Ensure Mercer is waiting at the door. Report back here by four in the morning.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Roman stepped out into the frigid night and held the door open for me. I stepped onto the stone courtyard, clutching my mother’s battered suitcase with its squealing, broken wheel. The grand entrance doors swung open, spilling golden light across the snow, revealing a towering man with a shaved head and a scar slicing across his jaw.
“Boss,” the scarred man grunted, eyeing me up and down with open disdain. “This is the new staff?”
“This is Miss Sullivan, Dante,” Roman said smoothly, stepping inside and handing his coat to a waiting attendant. “She will be handling food service starting at dawn. If she needs supplies, you get them. If she needs muscle moved out of her way, you move it.”
Dante let out a low snort. “She looks like a stiff breeze would snap her in two.”
I stopped dead in the middle of the grand marble foyer, right under a crystal chandelier that probably cost more than my childhood home. I turned slowly, dragging my suitcase behind me, and looked Dante straight in the eye.
“A stiff breeze hasn’t managed to kill me yet, big boy,” I said, my voice cutting through the echoing hall like a razor. “Now point me toward the kitchen, or get out of my way. I’ve got menus to plan, and I don't like wasting time on men who mistake muscle for competence.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, his posture shifted toward violence—then Roman let out a dry, low laugh behind me.
May you like
“Show her to her quarters, Dante. And pray her breakfast lives up to her mouth.”
***