Chapter 3 - The Wrath of the Vale
The warehouse erupted into sudden, blinding chaos.
Before Frankie Moretti could even clear his weapon, Sal and the enforcers opened fire with surgical, suppressive precision, neutralizing the four guards flanking the room in less than three seconds. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the concrete echoed off the damp brick walls.
Frankie stumbled backward, his face draining of all color as he found himself staring down the barrel of Ronan’s custom Sig Sauer.
"R-Ronan—wait!" Frankie stammered, raising his hands in a frantic plea for mercy, his expensive diamond ring catching the dim overhead light. "We were just sending a message! We didn't touch her—well, not much—just a little—"
Ronan didn't let him finish.
With blinding speed, Ronan crossed the distance between them, grabbing Frankie by the lapels of his silk suit and slamming him against the concrete pillar with enough force to crack the masonry. The breath rushed out of Frankie’s lungs in a violent wheeze.
"You touched what is mine," Ronan whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
"She's just a waitress! She's a nobody!" Frankie gasped, blood trickling from his nose.
"She is everything you are not," Ronan replied coldly.
With a brutal twist, Ronan shattered Frankie’s collarbone with a sickening crunch, letting the man collapse into a whimpering heap on the floor. Ronan turned his back on him, walking past the fallen guards straight toward Elena.
She was still tied to the chair, her face bruised, her chest heaving with silent sobs of shock and adrenaline. When she looked up and saw Ronan standing over her, the terrifying mask of the mafia boss melted away into something raw, vulnerable, and fiercely protective.
"Elena," Ronan breathed, dropping to one knee beside her. With hands that only slightly trembled, he pulled a pocketknife from his belt and sliced through the industrial zip-ties binding her wrists and ankles.
As soon as she was free, Elena threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder and finally letting the tears break free. She sobbed uncontrollably, her fingers clutching frantically at the back of his sweater.
"I thought... I thought they were going to kill me," she whispered against his collarbone.
"I told you," Ronan murmured, holding her impossibly close, pressing his face into her dark hair as a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion broke through the fifteen-year wall around his heart. "I told you I would keep you safe."
"Boss," Sal interrupted gently from the shadows, stepping over a body. "We need to move. The cops will be sniffing around this district within ten minutes. And the rest of the Moretti clan won't be far behind."
Ronan scooped Elena up into his arms effortlessly. She gasped, wrapping her arms securely around his neck as he carried her out of the blood-stained warehouse and into the waiting Mercedes.
As the car sped away into the Rhode Island night, Ronan looked down at Elena, who had curled up against his chest, exhausted and traumatized. He gently brushed a bruised lock of hair from her forehead, his heart beating a fierce, rhythmic pulse against his ribs.
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For the first time in three years, Ronan Vale felt entirely, fiercely alive.
And he knew the war was only just beginning.
