Bleeding on White Marble: How the Devil of Beacon Hill Became My Sanctuary

Downstairs in the massive, stainless-steel commercial kitchen, Mrs. Morrison was waiting.

Her face was pale as she watched Harper descend the service stairs, her uniform zipped, her eyes swollen. Mrs. Morrison didn't scold her. Instead, she poured a mug of hot chamomile tea and pushed it across the marble island toward Harper.

“He saw you,” Mrs. Morrison whispered, her voice laced with concern.

“He saw my back,” Harper corrected, staring into the golden liquid. Her hands were still shaking. “He knows someone hit me.”

Mrs. Morrison sighed, rubbing her temples. “Gabriel Ashford does not tolerate abuse in his house, Harper. His mother was killed by his father in a drunk rage thirty years ago. That is the one line you do not cross near him.”

Harper’s chest tightened. She hadn't known. The tabloids portrayed Gabriel as a cold-blooded monster who ruled Boston’s underworld with an iron fist, but they never mentioned the ghosts that haunted his mansion.

The heavy double doors of the kitchen swung open.

Gabriel walked in. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled his white sleeves up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms covered in intricate black ink—tattoos of thorns, scales, and a Latin phrase running down his inner wrist: Vincit qui se vincit. (He conquers who conquers himself.)

He walked over to the island, ignoring Mrs. Morrison, and placed a black leather ledger on the counter next to Harper’s tea.

“Your address in Dorchester,” Gabriel said, leaning against the counter. “It’s in a building owned by the Moretti family. It’s an unsafe location for an eight-year-old child.”

Harper gasped, her heart leaping into her mouth. “How do you know about Noah?”

“I know everything about the people who live under my roof,” Gabriel replied calmly. “Including the fact that your ex-husband is Detective Derek Lawson of the 12th Precinct.”

The mention of Derek’s name in this room felt like an electric shock. Harper stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. “Please—Mr. Ashford, don't get involved. You don't understand. Derek is powerful. He has the whole precinct backing him. If he finds out I’m working here, if he thinks I’m talking—”

“Detective Lawson is a low-level extortionist with a badge,” Gabriel cut her off, his voice dropping into that dark, lethal register. “He takes kickbacks from small-time bookies in Roxbury and beats his wife behind closed doors. He is not powerful, Miss Vance. He is merely unchecked.”

Gabriel reached into his pocket and placed a keycard on the counter.

“There is a secure townhouse in Back Bay. It belongs to my estate. It has twenty-four-hour private security, a gated courtyard, and a playground three blocks away. Pack your brother’s things tonight. My men will move you there at 6:00 AM.”

Harper stared at the keycard as if it were a coiled snake. “I can't accept that. I can't afford Back Bay. I can barely pay for Dorchester—”

“It is not a gift,” Gabriel said, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “It is a condition of your employment. I do not like my staff living in squalor where my enemies can use them as leverage. You will live where I can protect you, or you will hand in your apron tonight.”

Harper looked at the keycard, then at Gabriel’s unreadable face. He was giving her an ultimatum, wrapped in a luxury she could never have dreamed of.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.