Chapter 6 - The Breach at MarbleheadBy 7:30 PM, the winter storm outside had turned into a howling gale, battering the high glass windows of the cliffside estate with sheets of freezing ice.
I sat in the library near the hearth, working on a tablet, reviewing forensic financial ledgers for Matteo's commercial holding entities.
Despite my initial terror, my analytical mind had taken over. In four hours of auditing his secondary accounts, I had uncovered three major corporate tax loopholes that would save his legitimate shipping division over two million dollars annually.
Suddenly, the lights inside the library flickered violently.
CLICK.
Every light in the thirty-room estate went pitch black, plunging the grand library into absolute, suffocating darkness, illuminated only by the dying orange embers of the fireplace.
My heart took a violent, panicked jump in my chest.
BOOM!
A heavy, explosive muffled crash echoed from the subterranean garage levels below the main house.
The emergency red battery lights along the baseboards flashed to life, accompanied by the quiet, urgent chime of the private perimeter alarm.
The library doors swung open sharply.
Marco rushed into the room, holding a suppressed automatic rifle, his dark face tight with sudden, alarming news.
"Miss Miller! Get behind the desk!" Marco ordered sharply over the sound of thunder outside. "It's a secondary Providence team! They bypassed the lower gate sensors during the power surge!"
"Where is Matteo?!" I shouted over the alarm.
"He's ten minutes out on the highway!" Marco yelled, stepping toward the doorway. "Stay down!"
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Suppressed automatic fire cut through the hallway outside. Marco let out a grunt of pain as a round grazed his shoulder, forcing him backward into the library, slamming the heavy oak doors shut, sliding the thick brass deadbolt into place.
"They cut the main landlines!" Marco rasped out, clutching his bloody shoulder, setting his secondary weapon—a sleek 9mm pistol—flat onto the walnut desk.
Three heavy boots slammed against the outside oak panels: CRACK! CRACK!
The wood began to splinter near the brass lock.
I didn't scream. I didn't hide under the desk.
I stepped across the rug, grabbed the 9mm pistol from the desk, checking the chamber with the practiced, precise movements my late father—a former Boston police officer—had taught me when I was sixteen years old.
"Miss Miller... what are you doing?!" Marco gasped in shock, trying to stand up.
"I spent six months working late-night bar shifts in South Boston, Marco," I said, my baritone smooth, quiet, and cold as winter ice, stepping behind the heavy stone fireplace mantle, aligning my sights with the splintering doorframe. "Nobody breaks into my house."
BOOM!
The double oak doors blew inward.
Two Providence enforcers in dark coats flooded into the room, their weapons raised.
THWIP! THWIP!
I squeezed the trigger twice without hesitation.
The lead enforcer collapsed onto the rug, his weapon sliding across the floorboards, while the second enforcer dived behind the leather armchair, cursing violently.
Before he could re-aim his barrel around the chair, the massive panoramic glass windows behind the desk exploded inward into a million sparkling shards of ice and glass.
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A broad, dark shadow bounded through the shattered frame like an enraged panther.
It was Matteo.
