Chapter 2 - The Second-Floor Study
The second-floor study was a cavern of dark mahogany, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound ledgers, and a massive oak desk that looked as though it had been salvaged from a European courtroom. The air smelled faintly of aged scotch, cedar, and old paper. A single green-shaded banker’s lamp cast a warm, isolated pool of light over a scattered array of documents and glossy photographs.
Harper stood just inside the threshold, her hands clasped tightly in front of her newly zipped maid’s uniform. Her leg had stopped bleeding, and she had managed to wash the worst of the grime from her face, but the ache in her ribs remained a dull, rhythmic throb with every breath she took.
Gabriel sat behind the desk, his jacket removed, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal lean, corded muscles and a faint, jagged scar slicing across his left wrist. He was studying a photograph with intense scrutiny.
Without looking up, he gestured to the leather armchair opposite him.
“Sit down, Harper.”
“I’d rather stand, Mr. Ashford.”
“Your ribs are fractured,” he stated matter-of-factly, finally raising his obsidian eyes to meet hers. “Sitting will cause you less pain. Unless you enjoy suffering, in which case, feel free to remain upright.”
Recognizing the futility of argument, Harper crossed the Persian rug and lowered herself gingerly into the armchair. The leather groaned softly under her weight.
On the corner of the desk sat a heavy metal first-aid kit, flanked by a bottle of amber antiseptic and a roll of medical tape. Gabriel didn't offer the supplies to her; instead, he pushed aside the photographs, leaned forward, and rested his forearms on the polished wood.
“Let us establish some ground rules since you clearly missed the orientation memo,” Gabriel began, his tone conversational yet laced with absolute authority. “Rule one: you do not hide injuries in my house. Rule two: if a man with a badge and a God complex thinks he owns you, he is mistaken—because in this city, the only person who dictates terms within these zip codes is sitting across from you. And rule three: you are going to tell me everything.”
Harper’s jaw tightened. She gripped the armrests of the chair, her knuckles turning white.
“My personal life has nothing to do with my cleaning duties,” she retorted, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “You pay me five hundred dollars a week to sweep your floors and keep my mouth shut. You don't pay me to bare my soul or invite a war with the Boston Police Department.”
“Five hundred dollars a week is severely underpaying someone with your level of stubbornness,” Gabriel countered smoothly. He picked up one of the glossy photographs from the desk and slid it across the mahogany surface toward her.
Harper glanced down. The breath rushed out of her lungs.
It was a picture of Derek. Taken yesterday afternoon. Derek standing outside the Roxbury precinct, leaning against his cruiser, a toothpick clenched between his teeth, holding a doughnut in one hand while glaring menacingly at a passerby. Next to it was another photo—a close-up of Derek’s silver shield number: Badge 4482.
“How did you—?” Harper stammered, her fingers trembling as she touched the edge of the photograph.
“My security team does background checks on everyone who enters this house,” Gabriel said quietly. “Even maids desperate enough to take cash-in-hand work without references. It took my men roughly twenty minutes to figure out that Detective Derek Lawson has three active internal affairs complaints for excessive force, a history of domestic violence complaints that magically vanished from the precinct archives, and an active interest in finding his runaway wife.”
Gabriel leaned back, locking his piercing gaze onto hers.
“He came by your Dorchester apartment last night while you were here,” Gabriel continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “He kicked the door off its hinges, frightened your little brother half to death, and left a note on the kitchen counter promising to drag you back by your hair. Noah is currently staying in a secure safehouse two blocks from here, guarded by two of my best men. He is eating pancakes, watching cartoons, and completely safe.”
Tears sprang hot and unbidden to Harper’s eyes. The defensive shell she had spent four days building around her heart cracked wide open. She didn't know whether to scream, throw something, or weep with relief.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she choked out, wiping a stray tear angrily from her cheek. “You don't even know me.”
“I know a liability when I see one,” Gabriel replied, though the harshness in his tone had softened by a fraction. He stood up, walked around the desk, and picked up the bottle of antiseptic and a clean gauze pad from the metal kit. He stopped beside her chair. “And I do not tolerate rabid dogs operating within my jurisdiction. Roxbury precinct belongs to district four, but Beacon Hill belongs to me. If a cop thinks he can terrorize people under my roof, he has miscalculated.”
Harper looked up at him, the towering mafia boss suddenly appearing less like a monster from the newspaper headlines and more like an impossible lifeline.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
May you like
Gabriel unscrewed the cap of the antiseptic, his dark eyes glinting with a cold, terrifying promise.
“I am going to remind Detective Lawson why smart cops stay on their side of the river.”
