Chapter 2 - The Secrets of the Library
The Callahan library smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and centuries of dark family history. It was a room where deals were struck that made front-page news, where enemies were neutralized on paper before they ever reached the streets.
Maeve stood near the grand fireplace, her hands folded in front of her, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming locomotive. She had changed out of her cleaning smock into a simple navy coat, ready to walk out the estate gates into the freezing night rather than face whatever interrogation the city's most feared man had planned.
The heavy oak door clicked shut. Ronan walked in, shedding his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a leather armchair. He poured two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal tumbler, swirled it, and looked at her.
"You're terrified," Ronan observed, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk.
"I have a mother with medical bills in South Boston and a younger brother starting college," Maeve said, her voice shaking slightly, but holding a stubborn, fierce spark. "If this is about me being in a restricted wing, fire me. But don't play games with me, Mr. Callahan. I've worked three jobs since I was sixteen; I don't have time for them."
Ronan didn't get angry. Instead, a slow, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You think I brought you down here to fire you?"
"People like you don't call maids into the library for a chat."
"People like me usually don't listen to maids sing, either," Ronan countered softly. He took a sip of his scotch. "Where did you learn to sing like that? That wasn't just a party trick. That was training. Expensive training."
Maeve’s jaw tightened. A shadow passed over her dark eyes, guarded and sharp. "My father was a professor of music at Trinity College before things... fell apart. He taught me before he died. Now, if I'm fired, just tell me so I can get my coat."
Ronan stared at her, recognizing that armor instantly. It was the same armor he wore every day against a city that wanted to tear his empire apart.
"You're not fired," Ronan said quietly. "In fact, I'm doubling your hourly rate starting tonight. But you have a new duty."
Maeve blinked, suspicious. "A duty?"
"Next month, the Callahan Foundation is hosting its annual winter charity gala at the opera house. Every political heavyweight, federal prosecutor, and rival syndicate boss on the East Coast will be there." Ronan walked closer, his gaze locking onto hers. "I need a headline act. Someone nobody expects. Someone who can stand on that stage and blow every single one of them away."
May you like
Maeve stepped back, shaking her head. "No. Absolutely not. I clean rooms, Mr. Callahan. I am not a performer."
"You were singing in an empty, dusty hallway to a bunch of ghost stories," Ronan said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with magnetic authority. "Imagine what you could do with an audience that actually has to listen."
