Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Hanover Street
The morning sun broke through the heavy Boston fog, turning the slate-gray waters of the harbor into a sheet of hammered copper.
Inside Hayes Restoration, the smell of fresh coffee had replaced the lingering scent of turpentine and panic. Arthur sat at the small kitchen table upstairs, buttering a piece of toast with deliberate care while looking out the window at the construction crews across the street. The heavy yellow cranes belonging to the rival syndicate had stopped moving entirely; federal marshals had slapped red seizure notices across every piece of heavy machinery on the block before dawn.
“They stopped digging,” Arthur observed, pointing his butter knife toward the street.
Dominic, standing by the counter with a steaming ceramic mug of black coffee, glanced out the window. “They won’t be starting again anytime soon, Mr. Hayes. The entire corporate board of the development syndicate was taken into federal custody at four this morning.”
Arthur grunted, taking a bite of his toast. “Good. Too much noise. A man can’t glue a veneer in peace with all those engines rattling the floorboards.”
Nora walked into the kitchen wearing an oversized flannel shirt, her hair tied back in a loose knot. She paused in the doorway, watching the two men. It was a surreal tableau: her grandfather, who had spent forty-two years defending this tiny corner of Boston against the relentless tide of modern development, sharing breakfast with the most feared syndicate financier in New England.
“Don’t encourage him, Dominic,” Nora said, pouring herself a cup of tea without sugar. “He’ll start asking you to fix the plumbing next.”
“The plumbing is already handled,” Dominic said smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee. “I had a crew come in through the back while you were sleeping. New copper pipes, upgraded water heater, and reinforced floor joists under the old workshop.”
Arthur lowered his toast, eyeing Dominic with sudden suspicion. “You fixing my shop without asking?”
“I’m protecting my investment, sir,” Dominic replied without missing a beat. “Your granddaughter tells me the foundation stones date back to 1840. If we don’t shore up the southern wall before winter frost sets in, the whole building will shift.”
Arthur squinted at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Granite. You gotta use Irish granite for the footings. None of that cheap concrete from the suburbs.”
“Already ordered,” Dominic said.
Nora leaned against the doorframe, a quiet, disbelieving smile touching the corners of her mouth. Three days ago, she had been engaged to a man who wanted to demolish her legacy. Today, the most dangerous man in Boston was standing in her kitchen discussing Irish masonry footings with an eighty-two-year-old woodworker.
“You’re taking over,” Nora murmured.
Dominic turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air in the room suddenly feel very thin. “I told you, Nora. I don’t lose what I’ve claimed.”
Before she could answer, a sharp knock echoed from the front shop downstairs.
May you like
Arthur frowned. “Who’s that at this hour? The postman doesn’t come till ten.”
“Stay here,” Dominic said, setting his coffee mug down on the counter with a quiet clack.
