Chapter 4 - Someone Put a Price on the Maid’s HeadThe first bullet shattered the diner window at 6:42 the following morning.
Clary was pouring coffee.
Glass exploded across the counter.
Customers screamed.
Clary dropped instinctively.
A second bullet punched through the menu board.
A third struck the metal coffee machine.
“Down!”
Someone dragged Clary behind the counter.
Murphy.
The seventy-year-old owner covered her with his body.
Outside, tires screamed.
Then silence.
Clary’s ears rang.
Coffee spread across the floor.
A woman was crying near the booths.
Nobody appeared hit.
Clary looked toward the window.
Three bullet holes.
All clustered around the place where she had been standing.
Not random.
Her stomach turned.
Declan arrived nine minutes later.
Police had not.
That fact frightened Clary more than the shooting.
A black SUV stopped so violently outside that its tires mounted the curb.
Declan stepped out before the vehicle completely stopped.
Arthur followed.
Declan entered through the shattered doorway.
His eyes found Clary immediately.
She stood behind the counter with a small cut on her cheek.
Declan crossed the room.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Glass.”
He touched her chin gently and turned her face toward the light.
Clary froze.
His thumb stopped a centimeter from the cut.
“May I?”
The question mattered.
She nodded.
Declan wiped away a line of blood.
His jaw tightened.
“Who knew you worked here?”
“Everyone at the estate could find out.”
“Anyone else?”
“My neighbors. Tommy.”
“Carbone?”
Clary stared.
“You think this is about the debt?”
“I don’t know.”
Arthur was already examining the bullet trajectories.
“Professional?”
Declan asked.
Arthur shook his head.
“Maybe. Shooter wanted to scare her or missed intentionally.”
Clary heard.
“Why would anyone scare me?”
Declan looked at her.
That was the question.
She had been invisible three days ago.
Now she had been seen speaking privately with Declan Knox.
In his world, attention carried consequences.
Clary remembered telling him exactly that.
Declan remembered too.
His expression darkened.
“You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
“Clary.”
“I have a shift.”
Murphy appeared behind her.
“You absolutely do not.”
She turned.
“Murphy—”
“I’m seventy-one years old. I’ve survived two divorces, three heart attacks, and forty years of bad coffee. I can survive one morning without you.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
Declan looked at Murphy.
“I’ll cover repairs.”
Murphy pointed a finger.
“I don’t want mafia money.”
Declan blinked.
Arthur coughed.
Murphy added, “Unless insurance refuses the windows. Then we’ll talk.”
Declan almost smiled.
Clary did not.
She grabbed her coat.
“I’m going home.”
“You’re coming to the estate.”
“No.”
“Someone shot at you.”
“And your estate is probably why.”
That silenced the room.
Declan’s face hardened.
Clary immediately regretted saying it publicly.
But not because it was untrue.
“I told you,” she said more quietly. “Being noticed by you is dangerous.”
Declan absorbed the words.
Then nodded once.
“Yes.”
Clary had expected denial.
His agreement unsettled her.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the broken glass.
“You were right.”
That cost him something.
She could see it.
“So what now?”
“Now I make sure being near me doesn’t get you killed.”
“I’m not moving into your house.”
“No.”
Declan glanced at Arthur.
“Put security on her building.”
Clary opened her mouth.
“Discreetly.”
She closed it.
“I don’t want men following me.”
“You already had men following you.”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
Arthur looked at Declan.
Declan looked annoyed with himself.
Clary stepped closer.
“You followed me?”
“Security.”
“You had strangers watching me?”
“After Eddie grabbed you.”
“That is insane.”
“It kept you alive this morning.”
Clary stopped.
Declan’s expression changed.
“Daniel saw the car.”
“Who’s Daniel?”
“One of the men you didn’t know was following you.”
Clary stared.
“He got the plate?”
“Partial.”
Arthur interrupted.
“And the driver.”
Declan turned.
Arthur held up his phone.
A security camera across the street had captured a blurred image.
Declan looked at it.
His face became stone.
Clary saw recognition.
“You know him.”
Declan did not answer.
“Who?”
“His name is Michael Vale.”
Arthur’s voice was grim.
“He works for Sebastian Rourke.”
Clary knew the name.
Everyone did.
Rourke controlled casinos, construction unions, and half the political corruption south of the river.
He was Declan’s most powerful rival.
“Why would he shoot at me?”
Declan looked at her.
“Because Rourke thinks you matter to me.”
Clary laughed once.
It contained no humor.
“We’ve spoken twice.”
“That may be enough.”
“For what?”
“To use you.”
The reality settled between them.
Clary felt suddenly sick.
“I told you.”
Declan said nothing.
“I told you this would happen.”
“I know.”
“You should have left me invisible.”
“I know.”
“Then fix it.”
Declan’s eyes met hers.
“I will.”
Clary agreed to stay at the Knox estate for forty-eight hours.
Only because Tommy was moved into a secure rehabilitation facility and Murphy’s diner received temporary guards.
She was given a guest room larger than her entire apartment.
She hated it.
Silk sheets.
Ocean view.
A bathtub that probably cost more than her annual income.
At 2:00 a.m., unable to sleep, Clary wandered downstairs.
She found Declan in the kitchen.
Not the enormous professional kitchen used by staff.
A smaller private one.
He stood barefoot in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He was making eggs.
Clary stopped.
“You cook?”
Declan looked over.
“Badly.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You hungry?”
“No.”
Her stomach growled.
Declan raised an eyebrow.
“Traitor,” Clary muttered to her stomach.
He placed another pan on the stove.
Ten minutes later, they sat across from each other eating scrambled eggs and toast.
No guards.
No employees.
No marble ballroom.
Just two people awake at an unreasonable hour.
“Who is Rourke?” Clary asked.
“My enemy.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is unfortunately accurate.”
“Why?”
“Twenty years of family history.”
“Your fathers hated each other?”
“Our grandfathers.”
Clary shook her head.
“So I’m being shot at because two dead old men couldn’t behave?”
Declan smiled.
“That is an aggressively simplified version.”
“Is it wrong?”
“No.”
She ate another bite.
“Why doesn’t Rourke just kill you?”
“He has tried.”
“How many times?”
Declan considered.
“Seven.”
Clary lowered her fork.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“And you just live like this?”
“It’s the only life I know.”
“That’s sad.”
Declan looked at her.
People called his life dangerous.
Powerful.
Enviable.
Immoral.
Nobody called it sad.
Clary did.
And somehow that landed harder.
“What would you do,” she asked, “if you weren’t Declan Knox?”
“I am Declan Knox.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He leaned back.
Nobody had asked him that either.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“Teacher?”
“No.”
“Doctor?”
“I dislike blood.”
Clary stared.
“You’re a crime boss.”
“Occupational irony.”
She laughed.
The sound surprised him.
It was the first time he had heard her laugh without bitterness.
Declan found himself wanting to hear it again.
“Chef?”
She pointed at the eggs.
“Definitely not.”
“Musician?”
“I have no talent.”
“Neither do half the musicians.”
Declan smiled.
“What about you?”
Clary’s expression softened.
“I wanted to teach music.”
“You sing.”
“I used to play piano.”
“Used to?”
“We sold it when Mom got sick.”
Declan said nothing.
“I was accepted into a conservatory.”
“Where?”
“Boston.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
Clary looked down.
“Mom needed me.”
“And afterward?”
“Tommy needed me.”
Declan understood.
“You’ve spent your entire adult life rescuing people.”
Clary’s eyes lifted.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Who rescues you?”
Silence.
Clary pushed her plate away.
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You implied it.”
“I asked a question.”
“Well, don’t.”
She stood.
Declan watched her.
“Clary.”
She turned.
“You’re allowed to want something for yourself.”
Her face tightened.
“You don’t know anything about what I’m allowed.”
Then she left.
Declan remained in the kitchen.
May you like
He realized he had touched the wound beneath all her anger.
And upstairs, Clary sat on the edge of a bed she could never afford and cried silently for a piano she had sold eight years earlier.
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