66 "The Midnight Recipe That Awakened a Sleeping Monster: How a Broke Waitress Served the Only Dish That Could Break a Mafia Boss—And Unleashed a War Worth Dying For"

The blast blew the heavy mahogany doors off their hinges, filling the grand hallway with a thick, acrid cloud of gray smoke and pulverized drywall.

“Move! Now!” one of Ronan’s guards yelled, grabbing my father by the arm and dragging him toward a concealed panel disguised as a bookshelf in the corner of the study.

“Tessa, go!” Ronan shouted, drawing his sidearm as he stepped away from the desk to face the open doorway.

“Ronan!” I screamed, but the heavy oak paneling slid shut with a mechanical click, cutting off my voice and plunging us into the dim, amber-lit interior of the escape tunnel.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My father was coughing from the dust, leaning heavily against the concrete wall of the narrow passageway as the guard supported his weight.

“Keep moving, sir,” the guard urged, pushing us forward down the damp concrete slope that led toward the bayou behind the estate.

My mind was racing in a thousand directions. Ronan was back there alone, facing an army of Moretti’s heavily armed enforcers. Every instinct told me to turn around, to claw my way back through that secret door, but I knew I would only be a target—a liability that would get us both killed.

Focus on your dad, I told myself, biting my lip until I tasted copper. Get him out safe. Then figure out how to burn Moretti's empire to the ground.

We emerged from the tunnel thirty seconds later into the damp, swampy air of the Garden District boathouse. The murky waters of a private canal lapped gently against the wooden pylons, reflecting the pale glow of the moon breaking through the thinning rain clouds. Moored to the slip was a sleek, high-speed river launch, its engine idling with a low, throaty purr.

“Get in,” the guard commanded, helping my father down into the padded hull of the boat.

I climbed in after him, my fingers trembling as I clutched the edge of the seat.

“What about you aren't you coming?” I asked the guard.

“My orders are to secure you and your father downriver,” the man replied grimly, pulling a submachine gun from his sling and checking the magazine. “Mr. Callahan’s orders.”

He untied the mooring lines with a sharp yank, shoved the bow away from the dock, and vaulted into the pilot's seat. The boat’s twin supercharged engines roared to life, kicking up a rooster tail of white foam as we surged down the dark canal toward the open waters of the Mississippi.

Looking back over my shoulder, I could see the silhouette of the antebellum mansion rising against the night sky. Faint flashes of muzzle fire illuminated the windows of the second-floor study.

Hold on, Ronan, I prayed silently, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Please hold on.

The boat accelerated into the dark labyrinth of the bayou channels, leaving the burning estate behind us. But as the miles slipped away, a chilling realization settled deep into my bones.

The flash drive wasn't in Ronan's pocket anymore.

In the chaotic second before the study door blew open, when Ronan had grabbed my shoulders and looked into my eyes, he hadn't just given me an order. He had slipped something small and hard into the pocket of my waitress uniform apron—an apron I was still wearing.

I reached my trembling hand down into the deep front pocket of the apron.

My fingers brushed against a small, cold piece of black polymer.