Chapter 6 - THE GHOST OF BEACON HILLThe heavy oak doors of Belladonna’s grand library slammed shut, cutting off the howling coastal wind outside.
The library was a cavernous sanctuary of dark mahogany bookshelves, leather armchairs, and a towering stone fireplace where a low fire crackled, casting dancing amber shadows across the Persian rugs. But there was no warmth in the room tonight.
I sat in a high-backed wing chair near the hearth, still wearing Adrian’s black shirt—though Marco had managed to fetch a pair of soft wool trousers and sneakers from my apartment across town so I wasn't walking around in oversized menswear. Across from me sat Lucia Moretti, the family matriarch, holding a porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea with the steady, elegant grace of a woman who had survived decades of blood feuds and corporate assassinations without spilling a single drop of her drink.
“So,” Lucia said softly, her sharp blue eyes—the exact same shade as Adrian’s, though softened by age—studying me over the rim of her cup. “Julian Vance blew up his own command post just to keep us from finding out who funded him. Quite dramatic for a bean-counter from Sterling & Finch.”
“He wasn't just a bean-counter, Lady Lucia,” I said, taking a sip of the warm tea Adrian had insisted I drink. My hands were still shaking slightly against the ceramic. “He had an entire wall dedicated to Evelyn Moretti. He talked about debts that had to be washed out with fire.”
Lucia’s hand paused inches from her saucer. The porcelain made a tiny clink against the wood table. The lines around her eyes tightened, but she didn't look surprised. In fact, a heavy, sorrowful resignation settled over her delicate features.
“Evelyn,” Lucia whispered, more to herself than to me. “My sweet, foolish daughter-in-law. She thought she could audit the wrong people. She thought numbers on a ledger were more dangerous than the men who signed them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning forward.
Before Lucia could answer, the heavy library doors pushed open, and Adrian strode in. He had changed into a dark turtleneck and tailored trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate network of old scars along his forearms. He looked tired, the edges of his jaw tight with suppressed rage.
“Marco’s teams searched the Back Bay docks,” Adrian said, pulling out a leather armchair beside mine and sitting down heavily. “No Zodiac boat. But they found a burner phone left behind on the pier. The last outgoing call wasn't to a rival syndicate. It was routed directly to a private landline registered to the Boston Heritage Trust.”
Lucia’s teacup finally shattered as it hit the saucer. “The Heritage Trust? That’s impossible. That board is controlled by the oldest philanthropic families in the city—the Cabots, the Winthrops…”
“And Marcus Sterling,” Adrian finished, his voice dropping into a dangerous, glacial whisper. “The senior founding partner of Sterling & Finch Events.”
My breath caught in my throat. Marcus Sterling—the legendary philanthropist, the man whose face graced the society pages of the Boston Globe every Sunday morning, the man whose foundation funded half the cultural galas in the state, including the very event I had spent eighteen hours organizing yesterday.
“Marcus?” I stammered, my mind spinning. “Marcus Sterling is Serena’s boss… and Julian’s boss. But why would a multi-billionaire philanthropist want to assassinate you, Adrian? Why blow up a historic brownstone?”
“Because,” Adrian said, turning his slate-gray eyes toward me with a look that made the hair on my arms stand up, “twenty-five years ago, my mother didn't die in an accidental house fire, Elena. She discovered that the Boston Heritage Trust was a laundering front for illegal arms shipments flowing through our commercial shipping ports. And the man who signed off on the audit report that exposed them wasn't an accountant.”
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Adrian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his scarred hands clasped tightly together.
“It was Marcus Sterling’s father. And Marcus has spent the last two decades making sure anyone who ever looks into the trust ends up buried beneath six feet of Massachusetts granite.”
