Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE LINEN
The floor of Osteria Luna smelled of copper and cheap cologne.
Frankie Scalise groaned, his face pressed against the blood-soaked linen where the red wine had spilled just days ago. Vinnie stood over him, his boot planted firmly on the back of Scalise’s neck, keeping the rival captain pinned to the boards.
“Get him out of my sight,” Ronan said, his voice flat, devoid of the adrenaline that still hummed fiercely beneath his skin. “Dump him outside the Moretti social club on Broadway. Leave a message: The docks aren't for sale. Neither is my city.”
“Copy that, boss,” Vinnie grunted, hauling Scalise up by his collar while the two bodyguards backed away slowly, their hands raised, terrified to make a single move.
Within minutes, the restaurant doors swung shut, leaving behind only the smell of rain, ozone, and spilled blood.
Marco Bianchi was shaking so violently he looked like he might dissolve into the floorboards. He grabbed a rag, dropped it, picked it up again, and stared wildly between Ronan and Elena.
“Mr. Vale… the police… Moretti will start a war… Federal Hill will burn—”
“Marco,” Ronan interrupted, cutting through the panic with surgical precision. “Go home. Take your family out of the state for a week. Tell no one.”
“And the restaurant?” Marco whimpered.
“It’s closed for remodeling,” Ronan said, pulling a heavy wad of hundred-dollar bills from his inner pocket and tossing it onto the blood-spotted table. “This will cover the linen. And your silence.”
Marco grabbed the cash, nodded frantically, and bolted toward the back exit like a man escaping a sinking ship.
The heavy oak front doors locked with a loud, final click.
Silence descended once more. Only two people remained in the dim candlelight.
Ronan turned back to the booth. Elena hadn't moved. She was still sitting cross-legged on the red leather bench, her knees pulled slightly toward her chest, watching him with a gaze that defied all logic. Fear was there, yes, but beneath it burned an intense, dangerous curiosity.
“You have blood on your cuff,” she said softly, pointing a slender finger toward his wrist.
Ronan looked down at the dark crimson smear on his bespoke black wool. “It washes out.”
“Does it?” Elena tilted her head, her green eyes locking onto his. “Some stains go deeper than the fabric, Mr. Vale. I think you know that better than anyone.”
Ronan walked slowly toward her, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the tile. He stopped right at the edge of the booth, towering over her. He could smell the faint scent of jasmine soap and cheap diner coffee lingering on her skin. It was intoxicating—a sharp contrast to the smell of death he carried everywhere else.
“You should have run when Frankie grabbed you,” Ronan said, his voice low and dangerous. “You should have screamed for the police. You should be halfway to New York by now.”
“And miss the show?” Elena dryly replied, though her voice hitched slightly as he stepped closer. She looked up, refusing to shrink back. “Besides, I’m terrible at running. Remember? San Diego, L.A., Chicago, Boston. Every time I ran, I just ended up in another kitchen washing other people's dishes.”
“This isn't a kitchen, Elena. This is a war zone.”
“Then maybe I’m tired of hiding in the pantry,” she whispered.
Before Ronan could stop himself, his hand moved. His fingers, calloused and stained with a lifetime of violence, brushed lightly against her cheek.
Elena caught her breath. Her eyes fluttered shut for a single, fleeting second at the contact. It was the first time in fifteen years that Ronan had willingly touched another human being outside of a handshake, a threat, or a blow.
Her skin was warm. Real. Alive.
“If you stay near me,” Ronan warned, his voice rough as gravel, “there won't be safety. There won't be peace. Every enemy I’ve buried will try to climb out through you.”
Elena opened her eyes. They shone with a fierce, reckless light.
“Who said I was looking for peace, Ronan?”
The use of his first name hung in the air like a dropped blade. No one—not his capos, not the politicians who kissed his ring, not even his priests—had called him by his first name in fifteen years. It felt like a key turning in a rusted lock.
Without another word, Ronan leaned down and captured her lips in a hard, possessive kiss.
May you like
It wasn't gentle. It was born of fire, grief, and a desperate, starving hunger that had been locked away in the dark for a decade and a half. Elena gasped against his mouth, but instantly melted into it, her hands rising to grip the lapels of his heavy black coat, pulling him closer as if she were anchoring herself to a storm.
The dead boy in his memory didn’t scream this time. For the first time in fifteen years, the silence in Ronan’s house was replaced by the sound of a living heart beating wildly against his ribs.
