Across the room, Marco Bianchi stood frozen with a drying towel clutched in his white-knuckled grip, his eyes wide with absolute dread. He was waiting for the glass to break, for the gun to clear leather, for Ronan Vale to erase the girl who had spoken the unspeakable.

The villa outside Newport sat on a jagged cliff overlooking the churning Atlantic, a fortress of gray stone and iron gates that looked more like a prison than a home.

When the black sedan rolled through the gates, the headlights cut through the thick coastal fog, illuminating the sprawling, empty courtyards.

Elena sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the towering walls. She hadn’t packed a bag. She hadn’t called her landlord. When Ronan told her to get in the car after locking Osteria Luna, she simply opened the door and slid inside.

“It’s a tomb,” she said quietly, breaking the heavy silence as Vinnie parked the car near the grand double doors.

“It’s safe,” Ronan replied, killing the engine.

“There’s a difference.”

Ronan didn’t answer. He got out, walked around the car, and opened her door, offering a gloved hand. Elena looked at his hand for a moment before placing hers inside it. His grip was ironclad, warm, and entirely unyielding.

Inside, the house was cavernous and freezing. There were no lights on except for a single lamp in the vast, mahogany-paneled foyer.

“Vinnie,” Ronan commanded without looking back. “Check the perimeter. Double the guards on the east gate. Moretti won't wait long after what happened to Frankie.”

“On it, boss,” Vinnie muttered, disappearing back out into the night.

Ronan led Elena down a long, dimly lit hallway lined with dark, oil-painted portraits of stern-faced ancestors who looked down upon them with silent disapproval. At the very end of the hall, Ronan pushed open a heavy oak door.

Elena stepped inside and froze.

It wasn't a master bedroom. It wasn't a trophy room.

It was a shrine.

The walls were covered in framed photographs of a young boy with dark, unruly hair and a brilliant, gap-toothed smile. Model airplanes hung from the high ceiling on nearly invisible wire threads. A half-built Lego castle sat on a low wooden table, covered in a thin, undisturbed layer of dust just as it had been left fifteen years ago.

Elena’s breath caught in her throat. She slowly turned to look at Ronan. His face had gone completely pale, carved out of stone.

“This was Leo,” Ronan said, his voice cracking slightly—a sound so fragile it felt like glass shattering on stone. “Fifteen years old. He liked building things. He wanted to be an architect.”

Elena walked slowly toward the small wooden table, her fingers gently brushing against the dusty plastic bricks. She didn’t look away from the photos. She saw the boy laughing on a beach, holding a fishing rod, blowing out candles on a cake.

“Why did you bring me here, Ronan?” she asked softly.

“Because,” he said, stepping up behind her, his large frame casting a long shadow over the shrine, “everyone who ever entered this house left in a box or ran away in terror. I wanted you to see what you were walking into. I am a monster built of ash and dead memories, Elena. I don’t know how to love. I only know how to destroy what tries to love me.”

Elena turned around. She didn’t flinch. She reached out and placed her hand flat against his chest, right over his heart.

“I didn't ask for a saint, Ronan,” she whispered, her green eyes piercing straight through his armor. “I asked for a man. And right now, standing in this room full of ghosts, you’re the only real thing left in this city.”

Ronan looked down at her hand on his chest, feeling the steady, thumping rhythm of his own pulse. The icy wall around his soul cracked wider, letting a fierce, burning light bleed in.

Before he could pull her into his arms, a sudden, violent crash echoed from the floor below.

BOOM.

The sound of shattering glass and splintering oak shook the heavy walls of the villa. Sirens began to wail from the security posts outside, followed immediately by the sharp, rhythmic pop of automatic gunfire.

Vinnie’s voice crackled through the intercom speaker on the wall:

“Boss! We’re hit! Moretti brought an army—they’re breaching the east gate!”

Ronan’s eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated hellfire. The grief vanished, replaced entirely by the Apex Predator who had ruled Rhode Island with an iron fist.

He drew a heavy SIG Sauer pistol from his shoulder holster, racked the slide with a sharp metallic clack, and shoved it into Elena’s hand.

“Stay in this room,” Ronan commanded, his voice dropping an octave into absolute authority. “Lock the door. If anyone other than me or Vinnie tries to open it, you empty the magazine.”

Elena clutched the heavy steel pistol, her knuckles turning white, but she nodded firmly. “Don't you die out there, Ronan Vale. Do you hear me?”