Chapter 10 - Dawn over the Waterfront
Six months later.
June in Boston is a symphony of blue salt air, green ivy, and sunlight flashing off the gilded dome of the State House.
The lawns of the private park in Louisburg Square were lush and thick, shaded by old elms that rustled in the breeze blowing up from the Charles River.
The French doors of forty-two Louisburg Square were thrown wide open to the brick terrace. The smell of climbing roses and lavender drifted into the grand drawing room, where sixty people stood holding flutes of vintage champagne.
They were not gangsters.
They were harbor commissioners, municipal judges, pediatric surgeons from the hospital where Rowan had spent his recovery, and waterfront dockworkers who wore clean linen shirts and stiff Sunday collars.
At the edge of the terrace, Rowan sat in a lightweight titanium wheelchair, laughing with Frank Miller. Rowan’s shoulders had broadened; his skin was tan from weeks spent rowing an adaptive scull on the river, and the smile on his face was open, bright, and completely unshadowed by fear.
I stood beside the stone balustrade, looking out over the city.
I wore a sleeveless silk dress the color of sea glass, simple, elegant, falling to the tops of my silver sandals. The scar above my left eyebrow had healed into a thin, pale thread that was almost invisible unless the light hit it directly—a small, quiet reminder of the night the world changed.
A warm, heavy arm slid around my waist from behind.
Killian pulled me back against his chest, his chin coming to rest lightly against my hair. He wore a navy linen suit, crisp and unbuttoned, looking more relaxed than the city of Boston had ever seen him.
"You’re hiding," he murmured into my ear.
"I’m not hiding," I smiled, leaning back into his strength, resting my hand over his on my hip. "I’m observing. Old habits."
"You don't need to observe anymore," he said, turning me gently in his arms so I was facing him. "You’re the host."
"Thomas Byrne just asked me if we were going to renew the union contracts for Pier Four," I said, a small, teasing smile touching my lips. "I told him the trust was raising the hourly safety bonus by twelve percent, but he had to sign the new dock inspection manifests by Friday."
Killian threw his head back and laughed—a rich, genuine sound that made three nearby trustees look over in mild astonishment.
"You’re more ruthless than I am, Maeve Donnelly," he said.
"I’m not ruthless," I said, reaching up to adjust the lapel of his linen jacket. "I just know what things cost. And I know how to keep inventory."
Killian reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small, square package wrapped in heavy cream-colored paper and tied with a dark green silk ribbon.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It arrived from Florence this morning," he said, placing it in my hands.
I untied the silk ribbon. Inside was a custom-bound journal. The leather was soft, dark forest green, smelling of old pine and beeswax, stamped on the front with a small, discreet gold compass rose. On the first page, written in Killian’s sharp, masculine script, were four words:
*For everything we build.*
I looked up at him, my eyes shining with something so fierce and bright it made the summer sun feel dim.
"No more tracking white vans?" I whispered.
"No more vans," Killian said, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with the same fierce reverence he had shown me in the darkest hours of December. "From now on, Maeve, we only write down the things we want to keep."
May you like
He leaned down and kissed me in full view of the judges, the dockworkers, the city, and the sea.
The bells of the Old North Church began to chime three o'clock across the rooftops of the North End, their clear, bronze voices carrying out over the harbor, out over the slips, out over the quiet water where the slate-gray tide was finally coming home.
