Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Name
Matteo didn’t blink. The rain drummed a heavy, relentless tattoo against the front glass of Harborlight Wellness, and the amber light from the reception fixture cast harsh, jagged shadows across the bridge of his nose. For a moment, the quiet between us stretched so taut I could hear the faint, erratic ticking of the wall clock behind the counter.
“I’m not bleeding,” he finally said. His voice was lower now, lacking even the trace of irony it held a moment ago. “Not from an active wound, at least.”
“Then whose blood is that?” I gestured with my chin toward the hundred-dollar bill still resting on the polished maple wood. The dark crescent of dried crimson looked like a smudge of grease, but I knew the metallic, distinct tang of it all too well. It clung to the air between us.
“An associate’s,” Matteo replied smoothly, shifting his weight. His shoulders were broad, filling out the charcoal Italian-cut suit in a way that screamed old-money muscle and modern-day enforcement. “He had a rough afternoon. I had a rougher one. The currency changed hands.”
“Take it back,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, holding my ground. I had spent four years building this studio from the ashes of my father’s ruined clinic, and I wasn't about to turn my sanctuary into a laundering station for Boston’s North End underground. “Use an ATM. Wash it. I don't take money stained with someone else's violence.”
Matteo’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but a concession of respect. He reached out with long, scarred fingers, picked up the bill, and slid it into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a crisp, immaculate stack instead. Not a speck of dust, let alone blood, on these.
“Cash upfront, Miss Monroe,” he said, laying five hundred-dollar bills on the counter. “As agreed. Now, are we going to stand here discussing the monetary habits of Boston’s underworld, or are you going to fix my back?”
I stared at the bills. Five hundred dollars. It would cover the heating repair notice staring at me from the kitchen drawer and leave enough for Lily’s biology textbooks. I exhaled slowly, unclenched my jaw, and reached out to scoop up the money.
“Room two,” I said, turning toward the back hallway. “Strip down to your waist, keep your shorts on, and face down on the table. Give me five minutes to prep the oils.”
“Take ten if you need it,” Matteo murmured, his footsteps falling silent against the hardwood as he followed me down the dim, narrow corridor.
May you like
As I stepped into the supply closet to grab fresh linens, my hand brushed against a small, locked metal box on the top shelf. Inside lay my father’s old journal—the one he had been clutching the night his clinic caught fire, the one with the torn pages and the cryptic sketches of ancient medical symbols intersecting with Boston harbor coordinates. My father had died protecting a secret that people were still killing for.
And tonight, the most dangerous man in the city had walked straight through my front door.
