Chapter 2 - The Blackwood Convoy
Ten minutes later, I stood on the grand gravel driveway wearing dark jeans and a heavy wool coat, clutching a modest canvas duffel bag. The autumn night wind bit at my face, but the cold outside was nothing compared to the shock vibrating through my veins.
Usually, Kieran traveled with discreet town cars. Tonight, three blacked-out Cadillac Escalades were already idling near the marble portico, their engines rumbling like caged beasts. Six burly men in tailored tactical suits stood at attention. Marco, Kieran's feared right-hand enforcer, approached with a secured satellite tablet in hand.
"Boss," Marco said, glancing at me with guarded surprise before snapping his focus back to Kieran. "Route is clear through the Bronx, but why are we hitting Manhattan at four in the morning? Did the Moretti family make a move on the docks?"
"The Morettis can wait," Kieran replied briskly, taking my bag and tossing it into the trunk of the center vehicle. "We're going to Mount Sinai Hospital. Call Dr. Harrison Vance. Wake him up."
Marco's eyes went wide. "Dr. Vance? Chief of Hematology? Boss, he only takes international dignitaries and board members."
"He takes whoever pays his research grants," Kieran snapped, his tone brooking no argument. "Tell him the Blackwood Foundation is taking over patient Leo Torres's account immediately. If Vance isn't waiting in the pediatric lobby when our tires hit the curb, tell him I'll pull the five-million-dollar endowment I promised his wing last month."
Marco swallowed hard, tapped frantically on his tablet, and nodded. "Right away, boss."
Kieran held open the door of the luxury SUV, placing a firm hand on the small of my back as I climbed inside. The interior smelled of expensive leather, tobacco, and sandalwood. The moment the heavy reinforced door shut, the outside world ceased to exist.
I sat stiffly against the leather seat, staring at Kieran as he climbed in beside me. "Why are you doing this?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "Eighteen months. You barely spoke ten words to me a day. 'Coffee black, Saraphina.' 'The study needs dusting, Saraphina.' You looked through me like I was made of glass."
Kieran turned to face me. The glow of the passing streetlights cast dramatic shadows across his chiseled jaw and the faint scar tracing his left cheekbone.
"If I looked at you the way I wanted to look at you, Saraphina, you would have run screaming from my house within the first week," he said, his voice stripped bare of its usual aloof arrogance. "I am an executioner. A man born into blood and violence. You were the only pure, innocent light that ever entered that cursed mausoleum. You hummed old Spanish lullabies while dusting my grandfather's bookshelves. You left fresh tea by my laptop when you knew I had insomnia."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "You noticed that?"
"I noticed everything," he admitted, reaching across the console to take my cold hand in his massive, warm grasp. "Every smile, every tired sigh, every time you bit your lip when you thought you were alone. I thought you had a lover in the city. When I heard you whispering love confessions at three in the morning, I wanted to tear this city apart with my bare hands."
May you like
His thumb traced gentle circles over my knuckles.
"Now I find out you've been carrying the weight of the world on your tiny shoulders while serving me breakfast with a polite smile," he added fiercely. "Nobody who lives under my protection will ever cry over money again."
