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 safehouse in Biloxi was a nondescript, single-story ranch-style home nestled behind a thick grove of pine trees overlooking the dark, choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

By the time the river launch cut its engines and glided silently against the private wooden dock, the sun was just beginning to streak the eastern horizon with pale, bruised shades of purple and gold.

My father was fast asleep in the passenger seat, completely exhausted from the terror and physical strain of the night. The guard—whose name was Marcus—carefully lifted my father out of the boat and carried him inside the house, laying him gently on a comfortable guest bed.

I followed them numbly, clutching my damp uniform jacket around my shoulders. My arms were scratched from the broken glass back at Beaumont House, and my whole body ached with a bone-deep fatigue.

Marcus walked back into the living room, his face grim and lined with tension as he checked his phone for any signal or incoming encrypted transmission.

“Can you get through to Ronan?” I asked immediately, stepping up to him. “Is there any word from the estate?”

Marcus shook his head, avoiding my eyes for a fraction of a second. “The communications jammer Moretti’s crew deployed is blocking all cellular and radio frequencies within a twenty-mile radius of the Garden District. We won't hear anything until our extraction team reaches the outer perimeter.”

“Extraction team?” My voice rose sharply. “You're going back for him, right?”

“My orders were to bring you and your father here safely,” Marcus said firmly, though his jaw was clenched tight. “Mr. Callahan knows how to handle himself. He’s survived worse than Vincent Moretti.”

“When?” I demanded, stepping closer. “When has he ever faced an entire syndicate army while trapped inside a burning building?”

Marcus didn't answer. He turned away and walked toward the kitchen to check the perimeter monitors.

I turned and walked out onto the rear deck overlooking the Gulf. The salt air was cool and sharp against my face, clearing the fog in my brain just enough for me to remember the hard, cold object resting in my apron pocket.

I pulled out the black polymer flash drive.

Eda’s final secret. The key to Beaumont House, the corruption of New Orleans, and the death of Ronan’s mother.

If Moretti's men tracked us to the Garden District, they didn't do it by accident. They had a frequency tracker, or an informant inside Ronan's inner circle. And if they knew the flash drive was at the estate, it wouldn't take them long to figure out who had walked out of that study alive. ☕

Which meant we weren't safe in Biloxi. We weren't safe anywhere.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the hallway inside the house.

I froze.

It wasn't the sound of a door opening. It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of a firearm safety being clicked off.

I slipped the flash drive back into my pocket, my heart leaping into my throat, and crept quietly toward the sliding glass door leading back into the living room.

Marcus was standing by the front entryway, his pistol drawn and aimed squarely at the front door. But he wasn't looking at the door.

He was looking at the kitchen archway, where a tall figure stood half-shadowed in the dim morning light, holding a silenced pistol pointed directly at Marcus's chest.

“Drop the weapon, Marcus,” a smooth, chillingly polite voice echoed through the room.

My blood ran cold. I knew that voice from whispered rumors in the French Quarter.