Chapter 2 - Blood on Federal Hill
The rain turned to sleet by the time Ronan reached his secluded stone villa overlooking Narragansett Bay. The house was a monument to isolation, smelling of cedarwood, old books, and the haunting emptiness of a life frozen in amber. He poured two fingers of unaged bourbon, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to watch the dark waves crash against the rocks below.
For three years, he had been a ghost. He had ruled the underworld with cold, surgical precision, feeling neither joy nor pain, only the mechanical necessity of power. But tonight, the image of Elena’s green eyes kept cutting through the numbness.
She was a complication. A liability. In his world, showing an interest in a woman like Elena was painting a massive target on her back.
And the Morettis were a pack of wolves always looking for a throat to tear.
By Tuesday afternoon, Ronan’s fears materialized into a violent reality.
Elena was walking home from her second job at a local bookstore near Wayland Square when a pair of unmarked dark sedans pulled up beside the curb. Before she could scream, two heavies in leather jackets hopped out, grabbed her by the arms, and shoved her into the backseat.
She fought like a wildcat, kicking and screaming until one of the men struck her across the face, sending a sharp burst of pain through her cheek and plunging her into sudden, terrifying darkness as a burlap sack was yanked over her head.
When Elena woke up, she was tied to a wooden chair in the damp, freezing basement of an abandoned warehouse down by the South Street Landing. The air smelled of rusted iron, mold, and stale cigarette smoke.
"Well, well, well," a raspy, oily voice echoed from the shadows.
A heavy-set man with slicked-back gray hair and a diamond ring gleaming on his pinky stepped into the dim circle of light overhead. It was Frankie Moretti Jr., a lieutenant in the rival syndicate, sporting a predatory, vicious grin.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Frankie sneered, walking a circle around Elena. "The little waitress who’s been keeping our dear Ronan company on Thursday nights. Tell me, sweetheart... does the great Ronan Vale talk dirty in bed, or does he just stare at the ceiling like the corpse he is?"
Elena spat blood onto the concrete floor, her green eyes blazing with fury despite the terror clawing at her throat. "Go to hell."
Frankie’s smile vanished. He raised a heavy hand, ready to strike her across the face again. "You sassy little—"
CRASH.
The heavy steel door of the warehouse didn't just open; it exploded inward, flying off its industrial hinges with a deafening roar of splintered metal and screaming bolts.
Frankie spun around, his hand flying to the holster at his hip.
Out of the smoke and freezing mist stepped Ronan Vale.
He wasn't wearing his usual tailored coat. He wore a heavy black tactical sweater, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms. His face was a mask of cold, terrifying wrath—the face of a man who had already lost everything once, and was prepared to tear the world apart to keep it from happening again.
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Behind him stood Sal and a dozen elite enforcers, their suppressed automatic weapons raised and ready.
"Frankie," Ronan said, his voice dropping into a chilling, subterranean whisper that made the air in the room freeze. "You're breathing my air."
