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

The silence following the generator failure was heavy and suffocating.

Harper stood in the pitch-black bedroom, her back pressed against the cold wood of the mahogany wardrobe. Her fingers were white-knuckled around the small silver pocketknife Gabriel had given her. Down the hall, in the guest suite, Noah was sleeping. That was her only thought. Her brother could not be touched.

Through the crack of the door, the beam of a tactical flashlight sliced through the darkness of the corridor.

"Clear the east wing," a voice with a harsh, heavy South Boston accent rasped. "The boss wants the girl and the kid alive. Anyone else dies."

Moretti's men.

They hadn't just ambushed Gabriel at the meatpacking plant; they had split their forces, using the midnight meeting as a diversion to strike at the heart of Gabriel's estate while his primary security force was away.

Harper forced herself to breathe slowly, ignoring the dull ache still lingering in her ribs. She was done being a victim. She was done cowering in corners while men with guns decided her fate.

She quietly slipped off her shoes, melted into the shadows, and edged out into the hallway.

The intruder was a tall, burly man in a tactical vest, sweeping his flashlight across the doorways. As he passed her door, turning his back toward the linen closet, Harper moved with a quiet desperation born of instinct.

She grabbed a heavy brass floor lamp from the corner and swung it with everything she had.

CRACK.

The solid base shattered against the side of the intruder’s head. He let out a muffled grunt and collapsed onto the carpet, dropping his suppressed pistol and flashlight.

Harper dropped the lamp, grabbed the dropped pistol, and sprinted down the hall toward Noah's room.

Before she could reach the handle, a rough hand grabbed her by her hair from behind, slamming her violently against the wall.

"Got you, little bird," another mercenary sneered, pressing the barrel of a shotgun under her chin. "Don't move or I'll splatter your brains across this expensive wallpaper."

Harper glared at him, her eyes burning with pure defiance despite the cold steel against her neck. "If you touch my brother, I will kill you myself."

The man laughed—a dry, ugly sound. But before the laugh could leave his throat, a sharp thwip-thwip echoed through the dark stairwell.

Two red bursts blossomed on the mercenary's chest. His eyes rolled back, and he pitched forward, dead before he hit the floor.

Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the red glow of the emergency backup lighting, was Marco—bleeding from a slash across his forehead, but holding a smoking rifle.

"Miss Vance," Marco panted, stepping over the body and kicking the gun away. "You're hit?"

"I'm fine," Harper gasped, checking her door. Noah was still asleep inside, shielded by the heavy soundproof oak doors. "Where is Gabriel?"

"The Seaport was a trap, but the boss saw through it," Marco said, pulling her toward the reinforced panic room behind the library. "He sent half of us back the second the power grid flickered. He’s clearing the grounds right now."