Chapter 6 - The Beacon Hill Fortress
The convoy rolled through the grand wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate thirty minutes later.
The kids had their faces glued to the tinted windows of the luxury vans. We had left the crumbling, narrow streets of our Boston neighborhood behind, entering an enclave of massive brick mansions, gas lamps, and pristine snow-covered gardens.
The main house was a sprawling four-story brick mansion that looked like a historic museum. As the vehicles stopped under the lit stone portico, the heavy front doors swung open. Three staff members in crisp uniforms stepped out, holding warm blankets and umbrellas.
"Welcome home, Don Victor," an elderly butler said politely, bowing slightly.
"Arthur," Victor said, stepping out of the lead SUV and offering a hand to help me down. His grip was broad, warm, and unexpectedly steady. "Prepare the third-floor suites for the children. Make sure the fires are lit in every room."
"Right away, sir."
I gathered the kids around me like a mother hen, my arms wrapped tightly around Bibi and Avery. The kids walked into the grand foyer on tiptoes, their wet boots sinking into thick Persian rugs. Crystal chandeliers fractured warm, golden light across high ceilings, and the air smelled of beeswax, old books, and roasting wood.
"Whoa," Jamal whispered, his eyes wide as he looked at the grand double staircase. "Is this a hotel?"
"It's a house, kid," Victor said, tossing his coat to Arthur. "And it's warm."
"Mari..." Talia whispered, tugging on my sweater sleeve, her eyes darting nervously around the opulent room. "Are we allowed to touch anything? Is this guy going to arrest us later?"
"No one is arresting anyone, Talia," Victor said, leaning down slightly so he was at eye level with her. His tone was surprisingly gentle. "You are guests in my home. Every room upstairs is heated. There are nine beds made with fresh linen. Go eat."
A maid appeared holding a massive silver tray loaded with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, marshmallows, and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Luis, who usually collected bottle caps, stared at the cookies as if they were made of solid gold. "Can we... can we really have one?"
"Take two," Victor said softly.
Within five minutes, the kids were ushered upstairs by the gentle staff, their laughter and excited chatter echoing through the grand stairwell for the first time in what felt like decades.
Only I remained in the foyer, holding my battered leather purse, standing on the edge of the expensive rug like an intruder.
Victor turned to look at me. His eyes swept over my oversized coat, my messy hair tied in a loose bun, and the exhaustion etched into every line of my face.
"You're not eating?" he asked.
"I need to know what the catch is, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice dropping into a firm, unyielding tone. "You saved us from the police tonight, and I am grateful. But I've been doing this long enough to know that powerful men don't spend millions of dollars buying banks and housing nine foster kids out of the goodness of their hearts."
Victor walked over to a small mahogany table, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and looked at me over the rim.
"I did it for Leo," Victor said honestly. "He loves you. If I took him and threw you out, he would have hated me for the rest of his life. I couldn't afford to lose him again."
"And the other eight?"
May you like
Victor took a slow sip of his drink, his gray eyes locking onto mine with absolute seriousness.
"They saved my grandson when I wasn't there to protect him," Victor said. "In my world, Marisol, we pay our debts. They stay here. You stay here. And nobody touches this family again."
