Chapter 3 - The Gates of Oyster Bay
The Conti estate, known as Villa Miramare, sat on a high cliff overlooking the Long Island Sound. It was an Italianate mansion built in the 1920s, surrounded by eight-foot stone walls topped with copper lanterns and modern security cameras that moved with quiet, robotic precision.
When Marco drove through the iron gates at nine o'clock the following morning, the sun was bright, turning the grey waters of the Sound into a sheet of hammered silver.
Maeve sat in the passenger seat, a single suitcase on the floorboard behind her. Beside her in the back seat sat Lia, who had been discharged from the hospital an hour earlier. The little girl was quiet, holding her stuffed narwhal by one horn, staring out the window at the dense oak trees lining the driveway.
"Is Miss Maeve staying with us forever?" Lia asked suddenly, her small voice breaking the silence of the car.
Rafaele, sitting beside her, looked over from his phone. "She is staying to help us, Lia. She will be here when I have meetings."
Lia looked at the back of Maeve’s head. "Are you going to make me wear the floaties in the bathtub?"
Maeve turned around in her seat, offering a small, soft smile. "Only if you try to do cannonballs into the soap suds."
A tiny, hesitant giggle escaped Lia’s lips—the first sound of genuine lightness she had made since the day before. Rafaele watched his daughter's face, his own expression unreadable, though a subtle shift occurred in his dark eyes.
The car stopped before the main portico. A butler in a dark suit opened the door immediately, but Rafaele stepped out first, reaching back to lift Lia into his arms himself.
"Show Miss Callahan to the east wing suites, Thomas," Rafaele instructed the butler. "And ensure her security clearance is updated on the main gate panel immediately."
"Of course, Mr. Conti," Thomas replied, bowing his head slightly.
Maeve followed the butler through the massive arched oak doors into a foyer that made Harborview Estate look modest. High ceilings covered in hand-painted frescoes depicted coastal scenes from Amalfi. A double staircase lined with dark walnut wood swept up to the second floor, and the air smelled faintly of fresh lilies and lemon oil.
"Your rooms are through here, Miss Callahan," Thomas said, leading her down a long, sunlit gallery lined with oil paintings of former Conti family members.
The suite assigned to her was larger than her entire apartment in Queens. It featured a king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens, a private sitting area with a marble fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a private terrace looking out over the sea. An adjoining door led directly into Lia’s nursery and playroom.
"Mr. Conti requested that you settle in before lunch," Thomas said, setting her suitcase down near the wardrobe. "At one o'clock, he expects you in the library for a briefing regarding Miss Lia's schedule and security protocols."
"Thank you, Thomas," Maeve said.
When the butler closed the door, Maeve stood in the center of the plush oriental rug, feeling the immense weight of her new reality. Twenty-four hours ago, she was worrying about whether she would have enough money to buy groceries after paying her mother's insurance co-pay. Now, she was living in a palace, tasked with protecting the heir to one of the most powerful families in New York.
She walked over to the terrace door, pushed it open, and stepped out into the sea breeze.
Down on the lower terrace, about two hundred yards away near the cliffside gardens, she saw a silver Mercedes coupe parked near the fountain.
Standing beside it was Sylvana.
She was dressed in a sharp lavender trousersuit, arguing heatedly with Marco. Marco stood like a stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, refusing to let her pass toward the main house.
Sylvana threw her hands up in frustration, spun on her high heels, and turned toward the upper windows.
Her eyes caught Maeve standing on the second-floor balcony.
For five long seconds, the two women locked eyes across the manicured grounds. Sylvana’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. She raised one finger, pointing directly at Maeve, before turning around, slamming her car door shut, and speeding out through the main gates, her tires spraying gravel across the drive.
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Maeve didn't flinch. She watched the silver car disappear, her hands resting calmly on the cold stone balustrade.
She knew then that the threat to Lia wasn't over. It had simply changed shape.
