Chapter 6 - THE GATES OF BRASS
“They claim you’re an unfit mother,” Silvano continued rapidly, handing Rafferty a tablet displaying the security feed from the front gate. “They’re saying you brought a child into the home of a known criminal syndicate leader. The social worker is out there with two cruisers.”
Fay felt her knees give out. She grabbed the doorframe to stay upright. “No. No, they can’t take her. She won’t understand what’s happening! She won’t be able to hear them!”
Panic clawed at her throat. The thought of Josie—small, confused, living in a silent world—being dragged away by strangers was a nightmare worse than death.
Rafferty caught Fay by the shoulders, steadying her. His grip was firm, grounding her spiraling terror.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Fay, look at me.”
She met his eyes. They were not the cold, gray winter water they had been at the party. They were molten steel.
“They are not taking her,” Rafferty said. “I swear it on my life.”
He turned to Silvano. “Open the gates. Let them pull up to the front steps. Do not let them enter the house.”
“Boss, if we resist a court order with armed men—”
“I didn't say draw your weapons. I said open the gates.” Rafferty’s voice was dangerously calm. He looked at Silvano. “Get the file I asked you to prepare three hours ago. The one I told you to hold just in case.”
Silvano’s eyes widened in realization. He nodded and ran down the stairs.
Rafferty turned back to Fay. “Stay here with Josie. Lock the door. Do not come out no matter what you hear.”
Fay shook her head, terrified but resolute. “If they are coming for my daughter, I am not hiding in a bedroom. I am her mother.”
Rafferty studied her face, seeing the fierce, unbreakable spirit that had kept her going all these years. He nodded slowly. “Then stand behind me.”
They walked out to the grand foyer just as the heavy oak doors were pulled open by the guards.
Outside, the red and blue lights of the police cruisers strobed violently against the white columns of the mansion. A smug-looking woman in a tailored suit—the social worker—stepped out, flanked by a burly police captain and four armed officers.
“Fay Delacroix,” the social worker called out, her voice dripping with bureaucratic authority. “We have an emergency removal order signed by Judge Harmon. We are here to take custody of Josephine Delacroix for her own safety.”
Fay stepped out onto the portico, the night air clinging to her skin. “You have no right! She is perfectly safe!”
“You are residing in the compound of a known felon,” the police captain said, resting his hand on his duty belt. “Hand the child over, ma'am. Don't make us come in there.”
Rafferty stepped in front of Fay, shielding her entirely. He didn't carry a gun. He carried a manila folder Silvano had just pressed into his hand.
“Captain Miller,” Rafferty said smoothly. “Before you make the biggest mistake of your career, you might want to look at this.”
Rafferty tossed the folder down the steps. It landed at the captain’s boots.
Miller frowned, keeping one eye on Rafferty as he bent to pick it up. He opened it. The social worker leaned in to look, and her smug expression instantly shattered.
Inside were bank transfer records.
“Those documents prove that Miss Davis here,” Rafferty pointed at the social worker, “received a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars from Arthur Vanderpool’s offshore account exactly two hours ago. The same Arthur Vanderpool whose daughter I publicly humiliated tonight.”
The police captain glared at the social worker, who was suddenly sweating profusely.
“That… that’s fabricated!” she stammered.
“I don't deal in fabrications,” Rafferty said coldly. “I deal in leverage.”
Captain Miller closed the folder, his jaw tight. “This is troubling, Cain. But it doesn't change the fact that I have an order signed by a judge. Until a court reviews this evidence, the removal order stands. Bring the girl out.”
The officers moved toward the steps.
Fay let out a choked sob, backing away.
“Stop,” Rafferty commanded. His voice echoed like thunder over the estate.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper with a gold seal stamped at the bottom.
“You can’t remove the child from this home, Captain,” Rafferty said, holding the paper up. “Because as of an hour ago, this estate is her legal, primary residence. And I am her stepfather.”
Fay gasped, staring at Rafferty’s back.
The captain froze. “What are you talking about?”
“This is a marriage license,” Rafferty said. “Signed, stamped, and filed directly with the State Registry. Fay and I are legally married. The child is my dependent. You cannot claim she is in danger from a ‘known felon’ when I have never been convicted of a single crime in this state, and I am her legal guardian.”
Silence descended on the driveway.
Fay was paralyzed. She remembered Rafferty handing her a stack of papers to sign when they arrived, telling her it was just security waivers to get them past the estate’s legal barricades. She had been so panicked about Josie, she hadn’t even read them.
Captain Miller looked at the marriage license. He looked at the trembling social worker. Then, his radio crackled.
He unclipped it and held it to his ear. The voice on the other end was frantic.
Miller lowered the radio, looking at Rafferty with a mixture of awe and fear. “The judge just rescinded the order. Claimed he was misled by CPS.”
Rafferty smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. “I thought he might see the light.”
Miller gestured sharply to his men. “We’re leaving.”
They dragged the protesting social worker back to the cruisers. The cars sped away, leaving the estate in quiet darkness once more.
Fay stared at Rafferty as he turned around.
“You tricked me,” she whispered, her voice shaking with a mix of relief and betrayal. “You made me sign a marriage license.”
“I gave you a shield,” Rafferty said softly. “The Vanderpools fight with lawyers and judges. Now, they have to fight me. As my wife, they cannot touch you. As my daughter, they cannot touch Josie.”
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Before Fay could process the enormity of what he had done, Silvano stepped out onto the porch, holding a ringing cell phone.
“Boss,” Silvano said, his voice grim. “It’s Arthur Vanderpool. He wants to talk.”
