Chapter 7 - A Scent of Salt Brine and Scorched SteelBy 4:00 AM, the gale over Boston Harbor had blown out to sea, leaving the sky washed in a brilliant, crystal-clear sheet of sapphire and silver.
The harbor waters below the tower were calm, reflecting the brilliant winter moon that hung over the channel like a curved silver coin.
Matteo and Maeve stood together on the private master terrace of the penthouse, sixty floors above the singing tide.
The cool night breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind them, carrying the clean scent of ocean salt, curing cedar, and the sweet warmth of the oak smoke from the hearth.
Matteo held Maeve from behind, his massive, scarred arms wrapped securely around her waist, his chin resting gently against the dark silk of her hair.
Her left hand rested over his, the heavy platinum band and the six-carat sapphire ring catching the silver glow of the stars.
"Are you tired, Donna Maeve?" Matteo whispered into her ear.
Maeve leaned back against the broad, solid warmth of his chest, smiling up at the starlit sky, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against her shoulder blades.
She thought of the drafty subterranean wind tunnels, the heavy steel shears tearing through her canvas smock, the sixteen hundred dollars a month in her bank account, and the moment a man with obsidian eyes had boarded the pier and demanded a chair for his wife.
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"Not anymore, Matteo," Maeve whispered back, turning in his arms to cup his rugged, handsome face in both of her hands. "Tonight, our port is finally home."
He smiled—the soft, peaceful smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole—and kissed his wife beneath the Atlantic stars.
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