Chapter 2 - The Man Who Remembered Her Voice
The first thing Maximilian Russo noticed was that Clara Jenkins was trembling too badly to stand.
The second was that she was trying to hide her stomach from him.
“Mr. Russo,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”
He said nothing.
Rain rolled down his face, soaking the expensive charcoal suit that had been tailored in Milan. Behind him, the mansion's illuminated windows glowed against the darkness.
Clara struggled to her feet.
“I was taking out the garbage. I got dizzy. I didn't mean to sit here.”
Her knees buckled.
Maximilian caught her before she struck the pavement.
For one terrifying second, Clara found herself pressed against the chest of the most dangerous man in Boston.
His arm was firm around her back.
His other hand steadied her elbow.
“Easy,” he said.
She looked up.
That voice.
Something about its low, rough cadence made her heart stumble.
“Please don't fire me.”
His expression changed.
“Is that what you're afraid of?”
Clara looked away.
“I need this job.”
“Your hands are freezing.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're shaking.”
“It's just the rain.”
Maximilian removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders.
The gesture frightened her more than his silence.
Men like Maximilian Russo did not give their jackets to servants.
They gave orders.
“Come inside.”
Clara immediately stepped backward.
“I can finish my shift.”
“Your shift is over.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Sir, please—”
“Clara.”
She froze.
He knew her name.
“I am not firing you.”
Something in his voice made her believe him.
Not completely.
But enough to stop apologizing.
Maximilian glanced toward the silver chain disappearing beneath her collar.
“Where did you get that ring?”
Clara's hand flew to her throat.
“My ring?”
“The one you're wearing.”
She swallowed.
“It was a gift.”
“From whom?”
“Someone I knew.”
“Someone in New York?”
Her face drained of color.
Maximilian saw the fear and immediately regretted the question.
He was interrogating her like a suspect.
And she was standing in the rain, pregnant and exhausted, terrified of losing the only income keeping her father alive.
He lowered his voice.
“You don't have to answer.”
Clara stared at him.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the rear kitchen door opened.
Mrs. Gable stepped into the alley carrying a flashlight.
“Clara Jenkins! I have been looking everywhere for—”
She stopped.
Her eyes moved from Clara's swollen stomach to Maximilian's jacket around her shoulders.
Disapproval hardened her face.
“Mr. Russo. I apologize. I had no idea she was bothering you.”
“She isn't.”
Mrs. Gable straightened.
“Clara has been behaving strangely for weeks. I suspected she was concealing something.”
Clara's stomach tightened.
“Mrs. Gable, please—”
“I believe she deliberately misrepresented her medical condition when she applied for employment.”
Maximilian slowly turned.
“Are you finished?”
Mrs. Gable blinked.
“Sir?”
“Speaking.”
The older woman went silent.
“Call Dr. Bennett,” Maximilian ordered. “Tell him we have a pregnant employee who needs to be examined tonight.”
Mrs. Gable's eyes widened.
“And have someone prepare the east guest suite.”
“The guest suite?”
“Yes.”
“For Clara?”
Maximilian's expression remained perfectly calm.
“Do you need me to repeat myself?”
“No, sir.”
Mrs. Gable hurried inside.
Clara looked horrified.
“Mr. Russo, I can't stay in a guest room.”
“Why?”
“Because I work here.”
“Not tonight.”
“People will talk.”
“People always talk.”
He offered his hand.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
As they walked toward the kitchen entrance, Clara noticed a small scar just above his collarbone.
A pale line disappearing beneath his shirt.
Her breathing changed.
Six months earlier, inside a dark service closet, her fingers had pressed against warm blood.
A wounded stranger had cursed softly when she tightened the makeshift bandage.
And he had said something she had never forgotten.
Don't be afraid of the dark. Be afraid of the men who brought it.
Clara stopped walking.
Maximilian looked down.
“What's wrong?”
She stared at the scar.
“Were you ever in New York?”
He became very still.
“Yes.”
“At the St. Regis?”
The rain seemed to grow louder.
Maximilian's gaze moved to her necklace.
“Yes.”
Clara's fingers tightened around his hand.
“There was a blackout.”
“I remember.”
“And a man was hurt.”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes.”
Her lips parted.
“You?”
Maximilian looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said quietly, “You saved my life.”
Clara staggered backward.
“No.”
He didn't move.
“It was you?”
“Yes.”
She looked at his face as though seeing him for the first time.
The stranger she had comforted in darkness.
The man who had held her hand while armed killers searched the hallway.
The man who had kissed her forehead and left behind a ring.
Her employer.
The Don of the Boston Syndicate.
“Oh, God.”
Maximilian reached toward her.
She flinched.
His hand stopped immediately.
“Clara.”
She shook her head.
“No. That can't be possible.”
“Listen to me.”
“You're him.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze dropped to her stomach.
Then returned to his face.
Maximilian followed the movement.
For a moment, the ruthless crime lord looked almost uncertain.
“How far along are you?”
Clara whispered, “Twenty weeks.”
He calculated the dates.
His expression changed.
“Is the baby mine?”
She closed her eyes.
The question she had feared for months had finally been spoken.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
But Maximilian heard it.
He stared at her.
Then at the small curve of her stomach.
Something broke through the hard composure he had maintained for most of his adult life.
He looked frightened.
Not of the Moretti family.
Not of the men who wanted him dead.
Of the possibility that this young woman might have carried his child for five months while he knew nothing.
“Why didn't you find me?”
Clara gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“How?”
He had no answer.
“I didn't know your name. I didn't know your face. All I had was a ring.”
Her eyes filled.
“And I thought maybe you had died.”
Maximilian swallowed.
“Clara—”
“I didn't even know if you would want the baby.”
He looked at her stomach again.
Then said, “I want to know my child.”
Clara's lips trembled.
Before she could answer, his phone vibrated.
The screen displayed a name.
Marco Bellini.
His head of security.
Maximilian answered.
“What?”
Marco's voice was tight.
“We have a problem.”
“Explain.”
“The east perimeter camera caught someone photographing the kitchen alley.”
Maximilian looked toward the iron gate.
“Who?”
“We don't know. He left before security reached him.”
“Find him.”
“Boss, there's something else.”
Maximilian's expression hardened.
Marco continued.
“The man dropped an envelope.”
“What was inside?”
A pause.
“An ultrasound photograph.”
Maximilian felt his blood turn cold.
“Whose?”
Marco answered.
“Clara Jenkins's.”
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And beneath the photograph, someone had written four words.
THE HEIR DIES FIRST.
