Chapter 4 - The Escape Through the Kitchen
I looked down at Ronan’s extended hand.
It was the hand of a man who owned shipping companies, warehouses, and half a dozen businesses nobody talked about too loudly. It was the hand of a man who had just killed two trained assassins without blinking an eye. But it was also the hand of the only person in the room who understood why my hands were shaking, and why Eda’s memory meant everything to me.
If I stayed, what awaited me? Arthur Fletcher would likely fire me by morning for throwing away a seven-course menu, the rent notice would stay taped to our apartment door, and my father would keep sleeping on that broken-down couch because we couldn't afford a mattress.
If I took his hand, I was stepping off the edge of a cliff into the criminal underworld of New Orleans.
I placed my hand in his.
His grip was instantly firm, warm, and unbreakable. He pulled me up effortlessly against his side, his arm wrapping around my waist to steady my trembling legs.
“Smart girl,” he murmured, his breath brushing against my ear. “Stay close to me.”
He kicked the door of the private dining room wide open. The hallway outside was empty, illuminated by the rhythmic flashing of red and blue lights filtering through the tall arched windows at the end of the corridor. Ronan didn't head toward the main elevators; instead, he steered me toward a heavy service stairwell tucked behind a set of swinging fire doors.
We descended flight after flight of concrete stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing hollowly in the enclosed space. My muscles burned, and my mind spun in frantic circles as I tried to process the reality of what was happening. Just an hour ago, I was balancing a tray of champagne glasses and worrying about an overdue electric bill. Now, I was fleeing a crime scene with a dangerous mafia boss who held my entire future in his palm.
When we reached the basement level, Ronan pushed open a heavy steel door that led directly into the subterranean kitchens of Beaumont House.
It was pitch black, save for the faint green glow of the emergency exit signs overhead. The prep stations were quiet, coated in a fine layer of flour and vegetable scraps from the evening rush. The smell of seared meat and garlic still lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the meal that had started all of this.
“We're taking the loading dock exit,” Ronan whispered, keeping me tucked tightly against his side as he navigated the maze of stainless-steel prep tables and walk-in freezers. “My car is parked in the alley. Bulletproof Lincoln. Once we're inside, we don't stop until we reach my safehouse in the Garden District.”
“And my dad?” I whispered frantically, stopping in my tracks. “I can't just leave him! What if they go after him? What if they know where we live?”
Ronan stopped, turning to face me in the dim light. His expression softened just a fraction, a surprising flash of empathy crossing his rugged features.
“My men are already at your apartment building,” he said firmly. “They secured your father ten minutes ago, before we even left the dining room. He’s being brought to a secure location as we speak. No one lays a finger on your family, Tessa. You have my word.”
A wave of intense relief washed over me, so powerful that my knees nearly gave out again. I trusted him. As crazy as it sounded—as insane as it was to trust a man the entire city feared—I knew he wasn't lying.
“Thank you,” I breathed.
“Don't thank me yet,” Ronan replied grimly, turning back toward the steel exit door at the end of the corridor. “We aren't out of the woods. The men who came upstairs tonight weren't freelancers. They belong to Vincent Moretti.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. Even as a waitress working in the French Quarter, I had heard whispers of Vincent Moretti. He was the head of the city's oldest syndicate, a ruthless cartel leader who had been trying to claw control of Beaumont House away from Ronan for over a decade.
“Moretti?” I gasped. “Why would he care about a recipe?”
“Because Moretti knows what Eda's ledger contains,” Ronan muttered, pushing open the heavy steel door. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and the Mississippi River. “And he knows that whoever decodes it will control every illegal port, drug route, and political payoff in Louisiana. For fourteen years, Moretti thought the key died with Eda. But tonight, the smell of that oxtail stew told him the ghost had come back to life.”
As Ronan stepped out into the alleyway, pulling me with him toward a sleek, black armored sedan idling in the shadows, a blinding pair of high-beam headlights suddenly snapped on right in front of us.
Blocking the exit of the alley was a pair of black SUVs, their doors flying open simultaneously.
May you like
Men in tactical gear poured out into the rain, weapons raised, cutting off our only escape.
---
