Chapter 5 - THE PROSECUTOR'S TRAP
The basement of the Newport villa was a relic of the Cold War—a thick concrete bunker reinforced with steel bars, monitors displaying every angle of the property, and an old iron desk cluttered with coded ledgers.
Ronan stood over a tactical map spread across the metal desk, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. Vinnie was reloading a magazine nearby, the rhythmic clack-clack of brass cartridges the only sound in the subterranean room.
Elena sat on an old leather crate in the corner, holding a cup of black coffee Vinnie had handed her. Her hands were still slightly shaking, but her gaze never left Ronan’s back. She could see the tension humming in his shoulders—the posture of a king realizing his castle was surrounded not just by rival lords, but by the crown itself.
“Miller,” Ronan muttered, his voice like grinding stones. “The pious, untouchable federal prosecutor who built his entire career on cleaning up Rhode Island.”
“He’s dirty, boss,” Vinnie said, tossing a stack of printed emails onto the desk. “We hacked Scalise’s phone after the raid. Miller’s office has been feeding Moretti our shipping manifests, bank routing numbers, and patrol schedules. They’re planning a coordinated federal raid on the downtown docks at dawn, backed by Moretti hit squads disguised as tactical teams.”
“They’re going to execute everyone, seize the assets, and call it a successful anti-mafia sweep,” Ronan finished, tracing his finger along the map of the Providence waterfront. “It’s a clean execution. No trials. No questions.”
“So what do we do?” Elena asked, stepping closer to the desk. “We can't fight the FBI and the mafia at the same time.”
Ronan looked up at her, the harsh fluorescent light casting deep shadows across his face. “No. We don't fight them. We expose them.”
“How?” Vinnie asked, pausing his reload. “Miller has the whole state judiciary in his back pocket. Any evidence we leak will just be labeled as mafia fabrication.”
A slow, chilling smile touched the corner of Ronan’s lips—the expression of a chess grandmaster who had just seen three moves ahead.
“Miller is arrogant,” Ronan said softly. “He keeps his real ledger—the offshore accounts where Moretti pays him off—in his private beach house in Narragansett. Not on a server. On paper. In a wall safe behind his family portrait.”
Vinnie whistled low. “That’s suicide, boss. Narragansett is crawling with federal marshals right now.”
“Which is why,” Ronan said, standing up to his full height, “we aren't going in through the front door with guns blazing.”
He turned his gaze directly to Elena.
She felt a chill run down her spine, even before he spoke.
“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Miller doesn't know you,” Ronan said, his voice dead serious. “He’s never seen you. To the federal government, you’re just a waitress from Osteria Luna who vanished into thin air after a diner brawl.”
“No,” Elena said, stepping back, shaking her head. “No, absolutely not. I am not a spy, Ronan. I wash dishes. I drop wine on tables. I am not breaking into a federal prosecutor's house.”
“It’s the only way,” Ronan insisted, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his large hands gently gripping her shoulders. “Miller is hosting a private dinner tonight at his beach house with the chief of police and Moretti’s lawyer. A catering service dropped out at the last minute due to the storm. They called a local agency in Narragansett. An agency that just hired a new temporary waitress yesterday.”
Elena stared at him in absolute disbelief. “You… you rigged a catering job? When?”
“While you were sleeping,” Ronan said without a trace of remorse. “Vinnie made the call an hour ago. You’re scheduled to work the dessert shift at 8:00 PM.”
“You’re insane!” Elena hissed, pulling away from him. “If they find out who I am—if Miller looks at me twice—I’ll end up in a federal hole so deep they won't even find my bones!”
“They won't find out,” Ronan said, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic pitch of absolute conviction. “Because I will be in the kitchen with you. Every single second.”
Elena looked into his dark, unblinking eyes. She saw no hesitation there—only a desperate, burning need to protect her, coupled with the ruthless ambition to reclaim his kingdom.
She let out a long, shuddering breath, rubbed her face with her hands, and let out a dry, incredulous laugh.
May you like
“If I survive this,” she muttered, “you are taking me to Paris. First class.”
“First class, private jet, and the best hotel in the city,” Ronan promised, a genuine, rare smile finally breaking through his hardened armor. “Deal.”
