Chapter 4
Chapter four
With numb fingers, I slapped my palm against the glass of the security shack at Gracie Mansion’s front gate, hoping the guard inside would recognize me. After my sprint from the church, my lungs were burning, and my teeth were chattering. Snow clung to my hair, melting down the back of my neck.
The guard’s head snapped up, his brows shooting high in surprise.
“Open the gate!” I shouted, my body trembling as the adrenaline started to burn off. “Hurry! It’s me, Scarlett Hayes. I was attacked at the church, and my security detail was shot. I had to run for my life.”
I caught my wild reflection in the glass—no habit, my wet top clinging to every inch of me, my hair a holy mess of bright red curls springing out every which way.
“Miss Hayes?” he asked, already reaching for the lever as recognition hit.
“Yes, it’s me,” I said, breathless.
The buzzer sounded, and the gate began to open.
“She’s here,” he said into the mic positioned at the front of his mouth. “Miss Hayes is at the front gate. Looks unharmed.”
From somewhere behind the shack, doors opened and boots hit pavement.
The gate rolled wider, and I stepped through.
Two guards were immediately at my side. A rough hand clamped around my elbow. Another caught my other arm. They didn’t wait for me to find my footing on the ice, steering me off the entry path and up the drive.
“Miss Hayes, we need to get you inside before anything else happens,” one of them said, close to my ear.
My boots slid on packed snow as they shoved me forward. I tugged against his grip on instinct, then stopped. Fighting them would turn this into a scene, and a scene was the last thing I needed.
The mansion lights were all on. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree, with people moving everywhere, as if it were midday instead of just past midnight.
They rushed me inside, warm air brushing my face. Within seconds, I was standing in the middle of the Teal Room. And by teal, I mean teal carpet, teal walls, teal furniture, teal drapes—teal everything. It was one of those rooms preserved more for history than comfort.
Uniformed security and NYPD officers stood in small clusters, glancing up from their phones and then quickly away, most likely trying not to act shocked by my disheveled appearance.
Someone in a robe peered from the hallway with a hand over her mouth.
Another staffer hurried toward me in pajamas, her hair still mussed from sleep.
“Mary,” I said automatically, recognizing her.
She’d been kind and grandmotherly since I arrived.
Her eyes skimmed over me. “Are you hurt, Miss Hayes? Should I call for a doctor?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m fine. Just cold and wet.”
“Well, we’ll get you taken care of,” she said, already guiding me toward the loveseat closest to the fireplace, which was just crackling to life. “Don’t you worry, dear.”
Two lamps cast warm light over the sofas and a coffee table stacked neatly with books no one ever read. The room smelled faintly of smoke and whatever cleaner the staff used to keep everything looking untouched.
The other woman slipped in from the hallway and tucked a heavy wool blanket around my shoulders before retreating again. I cinched it tightly around me. Both women moved carefully, as if they weren’t sure how close they were allowed to get with all the security hovering nearby.
The television mounted between the windows was on, the volume low but urgent.
A breaking news anchor spoke rapidly about a shooting at Our Lady of Lourdes involving the New York City mayor’s daughter.
They reported there was no confirmed information about her condition or whereabouts and warned that the story was still developing.
Mary returned with a mug and pressed it into my hands. “Tea,” she said. “Chamomile, honey, and a bit of whiskey.”
I wrapped my fingers around the cup and tried to steady it, my hands still trembling from the cold and the run. The adrenaline from my fight with the tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably dangerous stranger still hadn’t worn off.
People talked around me. Security updates. Phone calls. Instructions traded back and forth. No one spoke to me directly. I was something being managed, not consulted.
The room tilted.
White walls. Plastic chairs. A hospital waiting room that smelled like antiseptic. Reporters pressed against the glass doors while adults whispered nearby, deciding what story would survive the night.
The fire popped, and the teal sitting room snapped back into focus.
I took a sip of tea, the whiskey burning just enough to remind me it was there.
Quiet compliance smoothed things over. It always had. I had no desire to have everyone’s attention on me.
Father walked in, and suddenly the room fell quiet.
Pressed shirt. Neat hair. Concern etched between his pinched brows. He was polished and ready to manage the incident. He crossed the room quickly, eyes locking onto me.
“Scarlett,” he said. “Are you all right?”
His hand came up to my cheek, warm and familiar. I leaned back just enough for it to fall away.
“I’m fine.”
His gaze scanned me, looking for any visible damage.
Behind him, his chief of staff, Stephen Maddox, entered with his phone to his ear. A staffer, whom I’d learned was his PR handler but hadn’t caught her name, followed moments later, folder tucked against her side as if this was just another briefing, not an emergency.
My father didn’t acknowledge them as he continued to scrutinize me.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” I replied simply. I wasn’t in the mood for an inquisition.
“Tell me what happened,” he continued, but his eyes flicked briefly toward the television.
Maddox leaned in close to his ear, murmuring about shots fired and an injured guard. My father’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he looked back at me.
“We’ll handle this,” he said more to Maddox than to me. “The optics will play favorably in my pursuit to rid the city of the old-world families.”
I let out a short laugh.
“Of course,” I said. “All that matters is that this benefits you. Not like I was almost abducted.”
“Scarlett,” he warned.
“You don’t need to worry,” I said. “I’ll be back at the monastery soon enough. You can dust me off and roll me out again when you need the saintly daughter for promos.”
The room went quiet.
His expression hardened in irritation.
“Enough,” he snapped, because people were listening and I had to be seen and not heard.
He leaned closer, his smile sliding back into place for the room.
“We are not doing this tonight,” he said quietly. “Not in front of them.”
Of course, there was always an audience. There was never a good time for a conversation of any substance.
I met his eyes and saw the same man I’d seen years ago in a hospital corridor, already thinking past the body.
Whatever had happened in the church didn’t matter to him nearly as much as the story he was about to tell.