Chapter 8 - Shadows in the Seaport
Two weeks later, the transition into her new life felt like walking through an elaborate dream.
The condominium in the Back Bay was pristine—high ceilings, polished oak floors, massive arched windows overlooking Commonwealth Avenue, and a security detail stationed discreetly in the lobby. Noah was enrolled in a private prep school two blocks away, where he wore a navy blazer, ate organic lunches, and came home every afternoon talking eagerly about science class and soccer.
And Harper had an office on the fourth floor of the Ashford Holdings building in the Seaport.
Sitting behind a sleek, glass-topped desk surrounded by monitors displaying corporate compliance reports, she felt like an entirely different person. The bruises on her back had faded to faint yellowish ghosts, and the constant, cold dread that used to coil in her stomach had been replaced by a sharp, focused energy.
The office door clicked open without a knock.
Gabriel walked in, carrying a thick manila folder labeled Confidential: Syndicate Holdings. He tossed it onto her desk with a dry thud.
“The North End docks,” Gabriel said without preamble, pulling up a chair opposite her. “Salvatore Rossi is trying to renegotiate our distribution routes. He thinks my recent focus on corporate restructuring means my grip on the port has softened.”
Harper opened the folder, her eyes scanning the columns of shipping manifests and customs clearance logs with practiced ease. “Rossi’s shipping volume dropped fifteen percent last quarter. He’s bleeding money because his maritime freight is bogged down by federal inspections. He needs your distribution network more than you need his territory.”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his handsome features. “Go on.”
“You don't crush him,” Harper said, her voice steady and professional as she traced a finger down the ledger. “You offer him a subsidized lease on Berth 4, conditioned on a sixty-forty revenue split in your favor. If he refuses, you quietly forward his unfiled tax discrepancies to the federal maritime commission. He’ll sign within forty-eight hours.”
Gabriel leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory grin touching the corners of his mouth. “You spent three years married to a corrupt cop, and your first instinct is corporate blackmail? I am deeply impressed, Harper.”
“Survival teaches you how to read between the lines,” Harper retorted, offering a rare, genuine smile that lit up her hazel eyes.
Before Gabriel could reply, the intercom on Harper’s desk buzzed sharply. Mrs. Morrison’s voice came through the speaker, tight and urgent.
“Boss. We have a visitor in the ground-floor lobby. A man named Arthur Vance—internal affairs division, Roxbury precinct. He’s asking for Harper.”
The temperature in the office plummeted instantly.
Gabriel’s smile vanished, replaced by the dark, terrifying mask of the Beacon Hill devil. He stood up slowly, his eyes locked onto Harper’s pale face.
May you like
“Stay here,” Gabriel commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“No,” Harper said, standing up to face him, her spine straight, her hands steady. “Derek is gone, but the rats are still crawling out of the woodwork. It’s time I face them on my own terms.”
