Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Estate
Downstairs, the Blackwood Estate kitchen was a cathedral of marble and stainless steel, usually echoing only with the efficient, silent movements of the domestic staff. Tonight, however, the air hummed with a tense, unnatural energy.
Mrs. Gable, a formidable woman of sixty with hair as silver as a razor blade and a posture that could shame a Prussian general, stood over the stove, vigorously stirring a pot of rich, golden chicken broth. Next to her, Harold paced the flagstone floor, his phone clutched in his hand.
“Sterling is on his way,” Harold muttered, glancing toward the heavy swinging doors that led to the main hallway. “He was at a dinner party in Cambridge, but when I mentioned it was the Mr. Blackwood requiring an emergency house call for a sick civilian, he dropped his napkin and ran.”
Mrs. Gable didn’t stop stirring. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway where Emma Carter sat at the massive oak breakfast table, wrapped in the velvet blanket, a steaming bowl of soup cooling before her. Lucas sat across from her, quietly sipping a cup of black coffee he had poured himself, watching to make sure she ate.
“She’s a child, Harold,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice low and laced with a fierce, protective maternal instinct that she usually kept locked away behind a veil of professional sternness. “A baby. In the middle of a Category 2 storm. And you let her past the gate?”
“She bypassed the outer perimeter security by walking right up to the intercom and refusing to leave until I answered,” Harold defended himself, though his face flushed. “What was I supposed to do? Shoot her with a tranquilizer dart? She had a notebook paper resume! Do you know how surreal that is?”
“It’s not surreal,” Mrs. Gable said, turning off the burner and ladling a smaller portion of soup into a delicate china bowl. “It’s desperate. And desperation in Boston right now is currency. The O’Sullivans are squeezing the docks. Rent is skyrocketing in the South End. People are starving in the shadows while the bosses play chess in their high-rises.”
She picked up the tray and walked over to the table, her hard expression softening the moment she looked at Emma.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Mrs. Gable said gently, setting the bowl down. “Blow on it. It’s hot. Real chicken, not the canned stuff.”
Emma looked up, her pale blue-gray eyes blinking gratefully. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Mrs. Gable. Or just Gable. Now eat, before Mr. Blackwood here starts thinking you’re a poor investment.”
A faint, hesitant smile touched Emma’s lips, and she picked up the heavy silver spoon.
Lucas watched the interaction in silence. For a man who managed a sprawling empire of underground casinos, import syndicates, and financial portfolios, watching a little girl eat soup felt like witnessing an alien ritual. Yet, beneath his stoic exterior, a cold, hard knot was forming in his gut.
The bomb in his Bentley. The leak in his inner circle. And now, an impoverished, dying woman and her courageous daughter appearing on his doorstep during a torrential downopour, just seven days after an assassination attempt.
Was it a coincidence? In Lucas Blackwood’s world, coincidences were nothing more than poorly disguised traps.
“Harold,” Lucas said softly, leaning forward.
“Yes, sir?”
“Run a complete, deep-dive background check on Elena Carter. Not just the standard police database. I want medical records, tax filings, utility bills, housing history, and any association with the O’Sullivan crew or our other business competitors. I want it on my desk before Dr. Sterling arrives.”
Harold nodded gravely. “Right away, sir. You suspect she’s a plant?”
“I suspect nothing,” Lucas replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “And I investigate everything. A man who stops being paranoid in my position doesn't live to see fifty. And I intend to live a very long time.”
Just as Harold turned to leave the kitchen, the heavy oak doors banged open with a force that made the silverware rattle.
A tall man in a soaked trench coat rushed in, carrying a heavy medical bag. It was Dr. Sterling, his graying hair plastered to his forehead, his breath coming in short gasps. Behind him stood two of Lucas’s armed guards, looking apologetic for not being able to stop him at the door.
“Lucas!” Sterling barked, not waiting for pleasantries. “Harold said emergency. Is it you? Did the shrapnel from the car bomb get infected? I told you stitches need time—wait.”
Sterling stopped dead in his tracks as he surveyed the kitchen scene. He saw Lucas Blackwood—the ruthless syndicate leader—sitting calmly across from a little girl wrapped in a velvet blanket, eating chicken soup.
Sterling blinked once. Twice. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wet hand.
“Am I having a stroke?” Sterling asked, looking around the room. “Did the explosion cause a delayed concussion? Where is the patient?”
“The patient isn't here, Sterling,” Lucas said, standing up and adjusting his cuffs. “She’s at home, in the South End. And you’re going to go see her tonight.”
May you like
Sterling stared at him, bewildered. “Go to the South End? In this weather? To see a civilian?”
“Yes,” Lucas said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the window, where the rain lashed against the glass with unrelenting fury. “And you’re going to take Harold and an armored vehicle. Because tonight, we find out if Elena Carter is just a dying mother trying to save her family… or if she’s the key to the person who tried to blow me to hell.”
