Chapter 5 - The Sanctuary
Five hundred miles north of Manhattan, near the rugged coast of coastal Maine, lay the small fishing town of Harbor Cove.
It was a town of twelve hundred people where news traveled by word of mouth, weather was the primary topic of conversation, and the closest major highway was a forty-minute drive through dense pine forests.
At the end of a long gravel lane overlooking the granite cliffs and the grey, churned waters of the Atlantic stood a simple two-story white clapboard farmhouse.
In the sunlit kitchen, Claire stood near the stove, stirring a pot of herbal tea.
She was wearing a thick cream knit sweater, faded denim jeans, and wool socks. Her hair was pulled back into a simple braid, her face free of makeup. She looked younger, lighter, as if ten years of heavy, suffocating iron had been lifted off her shoulders.
On the wooden kitchen table sat a wicker bassinet lined with soft yellow fleece.
Inside, three-month-old Julian lay fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace, his dark lashes resting against his chubby cheeks.
The back door opened, letting in a gust of crisp, salty sea air. Jenna stepped inside, carrying a wooden crate filled with fresh apples and groceries from the local market.
"Morning," Jenna said, setting the crate on the counter with a heavy exhale. "The air out there is incredible today. You can smell the pine all the way down to the docks."
Claire smiled, handing her sister a steaming mug of tea. "Did anyone at the market ask questions?"
"Nope," Jenna replied, taking a sip and leaning against the counter. "To Mr. Henderson at the general store, you are Claire Vance, a widowed graphic designer from New Hampshire who moved here for the quiet life. I’m your sister who’s helping out for the summer. No one cares, Claire. No one looks at us twice."
Claire walked over to the bassinet and gently brushed her fingers over Julian’s soft forehead.
"It feels surreal," Claire whispered. "For seven years, I couldn't cross a street without two armed guards following five paces behind me. I couldn't open a bank account or buy a dress without Damian’s accounting department approving the ledger."
"Because he wanted you caged," Jenna said fiercely. "He wanted a high-society wife who sat in his mansion, looked pretty for his political friends, and ignored where his money came from."
Claire looked out the window at the blue expanse of the ocean. "Malcolm called this morning on the burner line."
Jenna straightened up. "And?"
"Damian threw Sabrina out," Claire said flatly. "He canceled her contracts, froze her Florida accounts, and cut her off from the syndicate."
Jenna let out a cold laugh. "Serves the snake right. Does he know where we are?"
"No," Claire said. "Malcolm said Damian is losing his mind. He’s spent over two million dollars on private intelligence firms in the last ninety days. He’s raided three of his own rival families' territories in New Jersey because he thought they were harboring us. He’s making mistakes, Jenna. Big ones."
"Good," Jenna said. "Let him burn his own house down."
"It’s not just that," Claire murmured, her dark eyes reflecting the sea light. "Malcolm said the FBI has issued two more subpoenas for his real estate records. Without Sabrina to manage the shell companies, Damian is scrambling to keep his legitimate businesses separated from his criminal ones. He's cornered."
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"A cornered mob boss is dangerous, Claire," Jenna warned, her smile fading into concern.
"I know," Claire said softly, reaching down to pull the yellow blanket higher over her son's shoulders. "That’s why we have to make sure he never finds this door."
