Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Granite
Morning brought no relief from the storm. The sky remained a bruised violet, torrential rain churning the Atlantic Ocean into a boiling cauldron against the sharp granite cliffs below the mansion.
Amelia spent the early hours in Emily’s room, checking Leo’s vital signs and ensuring Emily’s blood pressure had stabilized. Ryan sat by the bed, holding his wife's hand, looking at his newborn son with absolute devotion.
"Amelia," Ryan said quietly, ensuring Emily was fast asleep before speaking. "You need to be careful around Damon."
Amelia was writing notes on a pad she found in her bag. She looked up. "I don't plan on staying a second longer than it takes for the storm to clear, Ryan. But what is your history with him? You never talk about Emily’s family."
Ryan sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Because Emily’s dad left the family business decades ago. He wanted out. But Damon... Damon was born into it. He took over when he was twenty-five after his father was assassinated. He’s brilliant, Amelia. He’s built an empire. But he’s ruthless. People who cross him don't just lose... they disappear."
"He saved your life by sending his men to the marina," Amelia noted softly.
"He saved me because Emily loves me," Ryan corrected. "Damon’s loyalty to blood is absolute. But you... you're my sister. To him, you're an outsider who knows too much now."
Amelia felt a subtle shiver run down her spine. "He told me we can't leave because of some Boston syndicate."
Ryan’s face paled. "Moretti. If they know you were brought here..." He grabbed Amelia’s hand. "Promise me you won't go near the perimeter. Stay inside the house."
"I have no intention of wandering around in a hurricane," Amelia said dryly.
Leaving Emily and Ryan to rest, Amelia decided to explore the main floor to find a cup of coffee. The mansion was massive, a sprawling blend of 19th-century gothic architecture and modern steel reinforcements. Security cameras blinked subtly from high corners; discreet, well-dressed men with hidden holsters stood at key intersections.
She followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee into a massive industrial kitchen.
To her surprise, Damon was there alone. He was wearing a simple black sweater, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing lean, muscular forearms corded with veins. He was pouring dark coffee into a mug.
"You sleep?" Amelia asked, stepping into the kitchen.
Damon didn't look surprised to see her. He slid the mug across the stainless steel counter toward her. "Sleep is a luxury for men with fewer enemies, Dr. Brooks."
"Amelia," she corrected, taking the mug. The coffee was rich and strong. "If I’m going to be your high-security guest for the next seventy-two hours, you can call me Amelia."
"Amelia," he repeated. The way his voice rasped over her name sent an unexpected jolt through her chest. He leaned against the counter, observing her with intense, analytical eyes. "How are my cousin and nephew?"
"Thriving. Emily is recovering well, and Leo is as healthy as a baby can be. You have good instincts, Damon. If you had waited another hour, Vance’s inaction would have killed that child."
"I don't rely on instincts," Damon said quietly. "I rely on observation. Vance was sweating when he spoke to me yesterday afternoon. A doctor confident in his treatment doesn't sweat when explaining it to a layman. He was out of his depth and too proud to admit it."
"And what did you observe about me when you called me at two in the morning?" Amelia asked, stepping a fraction closer.
A slow, enigmatic smile touched Damon’s lips. "I observed that when Ryan married Emily, you were the only person in his family who didn't look at our family name with greed or terror. You looked at us with mild annoyance. And I read your research papers on trauma surgery in wilderness conditions. You don't panic."
Amelia blinked, taken aback. "You read my research papers?"
"I don't invite strangers into my home without knowing everything about them, Amelia," Damon said smoothly. "I know you graduated top of your class at Johns Hopkins. I know you refused a lucrative plastic surgery residency in New York to work in rural Maine clinics. And I know you haven't dated anyone seriously in three years because you care more about your patients than your personal life."
Amelia’s cheeks flushed warm. "That’s... an invasive violation of privacy."
"It’s thoroughness," Damon countered softly. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He was tall, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his dark, magnetic eyes. "And right now, that thoroughness is the only thing keeping you safe."
Before Amelia could formulate a comeback, the radio mounted on Damon’s belt squawked with static.
"Boss," a voice crackled through the speaker. "We’ve got a motion sensor trip on the north ridge by the old lighthouse. Vehicle headlights."
Damon’s demeanor shifted instantly. The warmth vanished, replaced by an icy, lethal calm. He unclipped the radio. "Confirm identity."
"No response to haul hailing, boss. They’re driving blacked-out SUVs. They just rammed the lower wooden gate."
Damon looked at Amelia. "Go upstairs. Get Ryan, Emily, and the baby into the panic room behind the library."
May you like
"Damon—"
"Now, Amelia!" he commanded, his voice echoing like thunder through the kitchen.
