Chapter 2 - The South Boston Walk-Up
The rain had settled into a steady, gray drizzle by the time Rowan’s private van—equipped with a hydraulic lift—pulled up outside a weather-beaten three-story walk-up on D Street in South Boston. The neighborhood was a maze of narrow alleyways, flickering streetlamps, and the constant, distant hum of the port.
Rowan sat in the back of the converted Mercedes sprinter, watching through tinted glass as Mave Quinn walked up the exterior wooden stairs, her hand clutching Piper’s small, pink-coated shoulder.
They looked exhausted. Mave’s shoulders were hunched against the damp chill, and she carried a heavy plastic bag of groceries that looked like it contained more generic items than fresh food.
Dante sat in the front passenger seat, turning back with a skeptical look. “Boss, I still don’t get it. You survived an assassination attempt, you’re facing a coup by Julian Cross, and you’re staking out a waitress in Southie?”
“She works double shifts at Sterling Court,” Rowan said, his gaze fixed on the second-floor window where a dim yellow light flickered on. “And she has a six-year-old child living in a neighborhood where Cross’s loan sharks operate unchecked. Do you think she can afford the rent hike Cross instituted last month?”
“Cross raised rents across the entire third ward,” Dante admitted. “To squeeze the small businesses.”
“And to squeeze the residents,” Rowan added coldly. “Every tenant who can’t pay falls into default. Default leads to debt acquisition. Debt acquisition leads to forced property sales. Cross is clearing the blocks for a high-rise commercial development without ever firing a shot.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked together. “He’s using your old real estate shell company—Apex Holdings—to buy up the deeds. He’s using your name to do it.”
“Using my name to steal my city,” Rowan corrected, adjusting his cuffs. “Wheel me up.”
“Boss, you can't just roll up to her apartment unannounced. You'll terrify her.”
“She’s already terrified of everything, Dante. That’s what poverty and an indifferent city do to people. Let’s go.”
The wooden stairs groaned under the weight of Rowan’s custom titanium wheelchair as Dante pushed him up to the second-floor landing. The paint was peeling in long, scabby flakes, and the air smelled of damp cedar and old fry-oil from the diner down the block.
Rowan raised his hand and knocked twice on apartment 2B.
Inside, the sound of a television click abruptly stopped. A lock turned with a sharp, metallic snap.
The door swung open six inches, held by a heavy security chain. Mave Quinn peered out, her eyes widening in immediate, breathless recognition. The fatigue on her face vanished, replaced by an unmistakable wave of panic.
“Mr. Hale,” she whispered, her fingers gripping the edge of the door. “What... what are you doing here?”
“May we come in, Mave?” Rowan asked, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of the menace people usually associated with it.
“My apartment is... it’s not fit for—”
May you like
“It’s dry,” Rowan interrupted mildly. “And it’s raining quite hard.”
Mave looked past him to Dante, whose broad shoulders and heavy wool coat radiated quiet, lethal authority. She swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling beneath her worn flannel shirt. With a trembling hand, she unlatched the chain and pulled the door open.
