Chapter 4 - Blood in the SnowMidnight on the Newport estate looked like a painting of an ancient war.
The snow fell in thick, heavy curtains, muffling the sound of the crashing Atlantic waves and turning the sprawling lawns into a blinding expanse of white. Inside the main study, the fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany walls.
Elena sat on the leather sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, staring out the window toward the private iron gates half a mile down the drive. Upstairs, Ronan had spent the last hour arming himself—strapping a shoulder holster over his black dress shirt, sliding a suppressed Sig Sauer pistol into place, and locking his father’s vintage pocket watch inside his breast pocket.
The man who came back down the stairs wasn't the lonely widower who had baked pizza dough with her in the kitchen.
He was the apex predator of Providence.
“Stay in the reinforced panic room behind the study bookshelf,” Ronan commanded, his voice absolute as he handed her a heavy set of keys. “If you hear gunfire, you lock the inner steel door and you do not open it for anyone except me or Dominic.”
“And you?” Elena asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to be brave. “Where will you be?”
“Waiting for them,” Ronan said simply.
Before she could argue, a sharp, piercing alarm echoed through the estate.
Warning: South Perimeter Breach. Sector Four.
Ronan’s eyes flashed with dark ice. He turned on his heel, strode out into the grand hallway, and stepped out through the rear terrace doors directly into the freezing blizzard.
Half a mile down the winding drive, two black SUVs with obscured plates had smashed right through the wrought-iron security gates, their headlights cutting blinding beams through the swirling snow. Four masked figures clad in tactical black gear spilled out of the vehicles, weapons raised as they advanced toward the main house.
They thought they were hitting an isolated, wealthy estate guarded by private security guards who could be bribed or broken.
They didn't know they were walking into a slaughterhouse.
From the shadow of a stone pergola near the rose garden, Dominic Vale raised his rifle, and the first shot shattered the stillness of the night. One of the Chicago enforcers dropped instantly into the snow, staining the white powder a deep, dark crimson.
Chaos erupted.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the falling snow like lightning. Shouts bounced off the stone walls of the mansion as the Chicago crew realized they were walking into a well-laid ambush.
Ronan moved through the blizzard like a phantom. He didn't shout. He didn't issue commands. Dressed head-to-toe in black, he blended seamlessly into the winter night.
A masked enforcer rounded the corner of the terrace, raising an automatic rifle toward the glass doors of the study where Elena was hidden.
Click.
The barrel of Ronan’s pistol pressed squarely against the side of the man’s helmet before he could pull the trigger.
“You’re standing on my property,” Ronan whispered coldly.
The man spun around, but Ronan was faster—a brutal, precise strike to the jaw sent the enforcer crashing face-first into the stone patio.
Within ten minutes, it was over.
Three of the Chicago operatives lay face down in the snow, neutralized and disarmed. The fourth, the team leader, was pinned against the hood of one of the SUVs with Dominic’s boot pressed firmly against his chest.
Ronan walked slowly through the falling snow, his black overcoat billowing behind him like the wings of a crow. He stopped in front of the kneeling, trembling enforcer, holstering his weapon with absolute calm.
“Who sent you?” Ronan asked, his voice barely audible over the wind.
The leader spat a mouthful of blood onto the snow, sneering through his broken lip. “You... you think killing us stops it, Vale? The Outfit in Chicago... they own half the federal prosecutors east of the Mississippi. They want the girl, and they want the ledger. If we don't go back, a hundred more will come—”
Ronan didn't let him finish. He crouched down, grabbing the man by the collar of his tactical vest and hauling him up until their faces were inches apart. The sheer, terrifying malice radiating from Ronan’s eyes made the seasoned hitman stop breathing.
“Tell your bosses in Chicago this,” Ronan whispered, his voice like grinding ice. “If so much as a shadow of a Chicago car enters Rhode Island again... I won't just kill their enforcers. I will walk into Michigan Avenue, burn their syndicate to ash, and salt the earth where they stand. Do you understand me?”
The man nodded frantically, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror.
“Get them off my lawn,” Ronan commanded, standing up and brushing the snow off his coat cuffs.
Dominic yanked the leader to his feet, shoving him toward the remaining SUV. Within seconds, the vehicle spun its tires in the snow, roaring down the driveway and vanishing into the blizzard, leaving behind a battlefield of silenced enemies and crimson snow.
Ronan stood alone in the dark, breathing heavily, the adrenaline slowly fading from his veins. He looked down at his hands—clean of blood tonight, but forever stained by the life he led.
For three years, he had believed his hands were only fit for destruction.
May you like
Then he remembered the way Elena had looked at him across the kitchen counter, laughing as she handed him a wooden spoon.
He turned around and walked back toward the house.
