The Heiress in Shadows

Enzo grabbed his weapon off the table in a single, fluid motion. “Lock down the upper floors. If a single man steps past the foyer, drop him.”

“Enzo?” Harper’s voice trembled from the floor. She had dragged a wool throw blanket off the foot of the bed and pulled it tight around her shoulders, covering the torn dress and her scarred back.

“Stay in this room,” he ordered, racking the slide on the pistol. “Do not open that door for anyone except me or Matteo.”

“He came for me,” Harper whispered, horror draining whatever little color she had left. “He didn't give me to you to settle a debt. He used the wedding to find out where your private estate is. He’s going to kill us both.”

Enzo paused at the doorway, turning his head. “Sweetheart, men like your father don't kill men like me. They just make messes I have to clean up.”

He slammed the heavy oak door, throwing the deadbolt from the outside, and sprinted down the winding grand staircase. The DeLuca estate on the North Shore was a fortress, built with reinforced concrete and bullet-resistant glass, but Preston had brought hitters who didn’t care about collateral damage.

Gunfire ripped through the heavy silence of the night.

The sound of automatic rifles shattered the glass of the eastern conservatory. Shouts echoed across the marble entryway. Enzo hit the bottom step just as two masked gunmen kicked through the side terrace doors.

Enzo didn't hesitate. He raised the Sig Sauer and fired three double-taps. The first man dropped instantly on the Persian rug; the second caught a bullet through the collarbone, screaming as he collapsed behind a marble bust.

Matteo emerged from the hallway, his combat shotgun smoking. “They cut the main power grid, boss. Backup generators kicked in, but the cameras outside are blinded.”

“Where is Whitcomb?” Enzo demanded, stepping over the dead hitter.

“He didn’t come to fight,” Matteo said, reloading with a heavy mechanical snap. “The SUV circled the driveway, sprayed the front entrance to cause a distraction, and peeled off toward Sheridan Road. But he left a package on the front steps.”

Enzo frowned, keeping his weapon raised as they moved toward the fortified front double doors. Outside, the winter wind whipped snow across the porch. Sitting directly on the top step was a polished mahogany box with a brass latch—the kind of box Preston used to store Cuban cigars.

Matteo moved forward with a flashlight. “Careful, boss. Could be rigged.”

Enzo used the muzzle of his pistol to flip the brass latch and knock the lid open.

Inside lay a single photograph and an old silver USB flash drive.

Enzo picked up the photo with gloved fingers. The image was dated eight years ago. It showed a teenage Harper strapped to a chair in a sterile basement room, with Preston Whitcomb standing beside an older man in a tailored Italian suit.

Enzo felt the air leave his lungs.