PART 5: The Cost of Protection
PART 5: The Cost of Protection
Underworld syndicates test neighborhood boundaries.
Life in South Boston settled into a surreal, golden rhythm over the next month.
Ironwood Holdings dissolved quietly after Apex Maritime called in their multi-million-dollar commercial debts, scattering their executives to lesser firms across the state.
My bakery flourished beyond my wildest dreams; with the building secured and no rent or mortgage payments draining our accounts, I was able to hire two new pastry chefs, upgrade our equipment, and finally start a college fund for Maisie.
And Nathaniel became a permanent fixture in our lives.
He didn't hover, and he didn't demand attention.
Sometimes he would drop by on a Tuesday afternoon just to sit in the corner booth with a cup of black coffee and read financial reports while Maisie chattered away about her kindergarten art projects.
Other times, he would bring us dinner from upscale Beacon Hill restaurants, slipping into the back kitchen through the alley entrance like an ordinary friend visiting after a long shift.
I told myself we were just friends.
I told myself that getting involved with a man whose name was whispered in hushed tones across police scanners and dockyards was a catastrophic mistake waiting to happen.
Yet, every time he looked at me across the bakery counter, the walls I had built around my heart after my divorce began to crumble.
Then came a rainy Thursday night in late November.
The bakery was closed, and Maisie was fast asleep upstairs in our small apartment.
Nathaniel and I were sitting at the wooden prep table in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea while going over monthly supply invoices, when the front security chimes rang out downstairs.
Ding-dong.
We both froze.
"The shop is locked," I whispered, glancing at the wall clock. It was 9:45 p.m. "Nobody comes by at this hour."
Nathaniel stood up instantly, his movements fluid and silent.
He didn't panic. He didn't reach for a weapon, though I knew the heavy bulge beneath his tailored overcoat was never far from his hand.
He gestured for me to stay put behind the heavy metal flour bins, then walked out into the dark dining area of the bakery.
I held my breath, listening intently.
The sound of rain tapping against the front windows was suddenly broken by the heavy, aggressive rattling of the front deadbolt.
Someone was trying to force the door open.
A sharp, metallic snap echoed through the shop—the sound of a tempered lock breaking under a crowbar.
The front door swung inward, and heavy footsteps crunched against the tiled floor, tracking rainwater across our clean dining room.
"Check the back rooms," a gruff, unfamiliar voice hissed from the dark. "Boss wants a message sent to Caldwell. If he thinks he can take over Ironwood's territory in Southie without paying the toll, he's dead wrong."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
May you like
Intruders.
Enemies from the criminal underworld, targeting Nathaniel—and they had walked right into my home.
