Chapter 6 - The Trap is Set
The private dining suite felt instantly smaller, the luxurious velvet and polished wood suddenly transformed into a pressure cooker of imminent danger.
"Who ordered it?" Ronan’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the lethal weight of an approaching hurricane.
"We traced the temporary plates on the abandoned delivery van," Vance answered, stepping closer while keeping one hand near his concealed shoulder holster. "Registered to a shell company tied straight to Dominic Moretti. Your father’s old rival. He’s been trying to wrest control of the shipping terminals out of Port Fourchon for six months."
Moretti. The name hung in the air like sulfur. Moretti was a relic of the old guard, a ruthless operator who believed Ronan was too young, too independent, and too dangerous to control the Gulf Coast trade routes. And tonight, Moretti had made his ultimate play—using Beaumont House's own kitchen as the executioner's blade.
"He thought taking out my chefs one by one would leave me isolated," Ronan muttered, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "He thought eventually I'd have to sit at my own table, unprotected, and trust the food served to me."
He slowly turned his gaze back to Tessa. She was standing quietly near the edge of the room, her mind racing. An ordinary twenty-seven-year-old waitress from a struggling downtown apartment had accidentally stumbled into a multi-million-dollar underworld war—and she was currently standing right at ground zero.
"You're not safe here, Miss Rowe," Ronan said, his tone softening slightly, though authority still underpinned every syllable. "Moretti knows someone intercepted his poisoned menu. If he realizes the plot failed because of you, you'll be his next target."
"And if I go back to my apartment?" Tessa asked steadily, refusing to let her voice shake. "How long before his men find me there?"
Ronan didn't answer because they both knew the grim truth: they wouldn't last twenty-four hours. Moretti left loose ends buried in the swamp.
"You don't go back," Ronan said firmly. "You stay here under guard until we dismantle Moretti's operation piece by piece."
"I am not a prisoner, Mr. Callahan," Tessa replied, crossing her arms with a flash of stubborn defiance that caught Ronan completely off guard. "And I am certainly not going to hide in a penthouse while someone tries to blow up my city—or my restaurant."
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A faint, humorless ghost of a smile touched the corner of Ronan's lips. For a man who surrounded himself with terrified sycophants and killers, Tessa's fearless defiance was the most refreshing thing he had encountered in fourteen years.
"Alright, Miss Rowe," Ronan said quietly, stepping closer to her. "If you want to stay in the game, we play it my way. Moretti thinks his poison worked. He thinks the chef is dead and I'm currently finishing my meal upstairs. Let's give him a little performance to confirm his suspicions."
