Chapter 1 - The Midnight Chef
The kitchen light was on at 2:14 A.M.
I had crept down the winding mahogany stairs of the Beacon Hill brownstone in search of chamomile tea.
Instead, I found Graham standing over a hot stainless-steel skillet, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt.
Boston’s most ruthless kingpin was slicing garlic with the delicate, methodical precision of a Michelin-starred chef.
His broad shoulders were tight with tension, and the ink running down his right forearm caught the soft glow of the pendant lights.
He didn't turn around, but he knew I was there the moment my bare foot crossed the threshold.
"There's milk in the back of the fridge," Graham said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the quiet hiss of olive oil. "The tea you like is in the third cupboard to the left."
I paused in the doorway, wrapping my cashmere cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
"How do you know what kind of tea I like?" I asked, keeping my tone guarded.
"I notice things, Audrey," he answered simply, flipping the pasta into the pan without looking up. "I don't survive in this city by being unobservant."
I walked toward the island, keeping several feet of distance between us.
"I thought I meant nothing to you," I reminded him, leaning against the cold quartz counter.
Graham set the tongs down with a soft click and finally turned his head to look at me.
His dark eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, but beneath that iron mask, something raw and restless flickered for a fraction of a second.
"Knowing what tea you drink isn't sentimental," Graham said coldly. "It's logistics. Sit down before your tea gets cold."
He slid a small ceramic plate across the counter toward me, loaded with perfectly tossed aglio e olio.
I stared at the food, then up at the man whose name made seasoned politicians sweat through their collars.
"You cooked for me?"
"I cooked too much," he lied smoothly, picking up his own fork and walking to the glass French doors overlooking the dark courtyard garden.
I took a tentative bite, and the rich flavor burst across my tongue with surprising warmth.
"It's incredible," I admitted quietly.
Graham didn't say thank you.
He stood by the glass, watching the dark Boston rain beat against the panes, his silhouette looking like an immovable statue against the night.
"Tomorrow night is the Calder Museum gala," he said after a long silence. "Uncle Everett will be watching us like a hawk."
May you like
"I know how to play the devoted wife, Graham," I replied, setting my fork down.
"I don't need you to play devoted," Graham murmured, turning just enough so I could see the hard line of his jaw. "I just need you to stay alive."
