Chapter 6 - THE WOLF IN THE KITCHEN
The Narragansett beach house was a monolith of glass and cedar perched atop a jagged cliff, illuminated against the crashing black waves of the Atlantic. Inside, classical music played softly through hidden speakers, and the air smelled of expensive wine, roasted lamb, and high-stakes corruption.
In the commercial-grade stainless steel kitchen, Elena adjusted her white apron with trembling fingers.
Across the counter, the head caterer—a nervous local man who had been heavily bribed by Vinnie earlier that afternoon—was frantically plating lemon tarts.
“You got the tray steady?” the caterer hissed. “Do not drop anything tonight, Elena. Prosecutor Miller is a monster if his dessert is late.”
“I’ve handled worse,” Elena muttered under her breath, glancing toward the swinging kitchen doors that led to the main dining room.
Ten feet away, standing quietly in the shadows near the pantry exit, stood a dishwasher in a standard black uniform and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead.
Ronan Vale.
The most feared man in Rhode Island was currently wearing a dishwasher’s apron, holding a stack of ceramic plates, and looking like an apex predator disguised as domestic help.
Through the service door crack, Elena could see the guests: Prosecutor Miller, a sleek man with slicked-back silver hair and an expensive custom suit; the chief of police, sweating profusely into his scotch; and Don Salvatore Moretti himself, smoking a thick Cuban cigar right beneath a "No Smoking" sign.
“They’re finalizing the warrant for the docks,” Ronan’s voice murmured quietly in her ear, so low only she could hear it as he walked past her to clear a rack of glasses. “Midnight. That’s our deadline.”
“How’s the safe?” Elena whispered back, keeping her back turned to the caterer.
“Behind the painting of Miller’s wife in the study down the hall,” Ronan replied, his hands steady as he wiped down a wine glass. “Vinnie bypassed the alarm on the side window twenty minutes ago. As soon as I clear the study, you bring me the master key ring from the caterer’s clipboard.”
Elena swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “And if someone walks in?”
“They won't,” Ronan said, his voice dark and absolute.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen bell chimed.
“Elena! Tarts for table one!” the caterer barked.
Elena picked up the silver tray, her hands remarkably steady as she pushed open the swinging doors and stepped into the lions' den.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, forcing her voice to remain bright and professional as she served the dessert to Prosecutor Miller and the police chief.
Miller didn't even look up at her. He was deep in conversation with Moretti.
“…and once Vale’s assets are seized, the commission will divide the port properties by dawn,” Miller was saying, taking a bite of the lemon tart. “The federal government gets clean statistics for the election; Moretti gets the docks. Everybody wins.”
Moretti chuckled, raising his glass of scotch. “To clean business.”
Elena caught Ronan’s eye from the shadows near the hallway. He gave her a single, imperceptible nod.
Now.
Elena turned around, deliberately tripping slightly against the edge of a heavy mahogany chair, sending the remaining tarts crashing to the floor with a loud, chaotic clatter.
“Oh, damn it!” Elena cried out, dropping to her knees amid the broken ceramic and cream.
“Clumsy bitch,” Miller muttered, waving his hand in disgust. “Get her out of here.”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Miller! I’ll clean it up right now!” Elena stammered, while her hand stealthily slid off the caterer’s clipboard she had left on the nearby sideboard, snatching the master key ring without a single person noticing.
May you like
As the guards rushed over to help usher the flustered waitress back toward the kitchen, Elena slipped the keys into her apron pocket and caught Ronan’s shadow sliding silently into the dark hallway toward the study.
The trap was sprung. Now came the fire.
