Chapter 7 - The Midnight Game
Down in the main dining room, the atmosphere was a masterpiece of manufactured elegance. Soft jazz played from concealed speakers, silver cutlery clinked against fine china, and wealthy patrons laughed over glasses of expensive Bordeaux. None of them had any idea that a war was being fought behind the swinging kitchen doors.
In the private suite upstairs, the lighting had been dimmed to a moody amber.
Marcus Vance stood near the door, his tablet glowing softly in his hand. "Moretti’s primary associate, a fixer named Sal Romano, is currently sitting at table fourteen down in the main dining room. He's waiting for confirmation that the hit was successful before initiating the corporate takeover of the shipping docks at midnight."
Ronan stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He turned to look at Tessa, who was standing beside the service trolley.
"Are you ready for this?" Ronan asked, his eyes searching hers.
Tessa took a deep breath, smoothing down the front of her black trousers. "I didn't spend six years watching incompetent men ruin good food just to let a bunch of thugs ruin my city. What do you need me to do?"
Ten minutes later, the private service elevator chimed.
Down in the main dining room, Sal Romano—a slick, silver-haired man in an expensive navy suit—sat sipping an old fashioned, glancing at his watch every thirty seconds. It was 11:55 p.m. Everything was running according to schedule.
Suddenly, the main dining room doors swung open.
A heavy, absolute silence fell over the entire room.
Ronan Callahan walked down the grand staircase.
He wasn't pale. He wasn't staggering. He walked with an upright, commanding posture, his dark eyes sweeping across the dining room with absolute, terrifying dominance. Beside him walked Marcus Vance, and directly behind them, carrying a silver tray with a pristine, empty porcelain bowl, walked Tessa Rowe in her crisp white apron.
Sal Romano’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the mahogany table as bourbon splashed everywhere. He froze, his face turning the color of wet chalk.
Ronan stopped walking right beside Sal’s table. He looked down at the terrified fixer with a cold, devastating smile.
"Good evening, Sal," Ronan said smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the entire dining room. "Tell Moretti his chefs need to work on their seasoning. The soup tonight was exceptional... but it lacked a little bite."
Sal stammered, scrambling backward out of his chair, panic flashing in his eyes. "I—I don't know what you're talking about—"
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Before Sal could finish his sentence, Marcus Vance grabbed him by the collar, hoisting him out of his seat with effortless strength. At that exact moment, the main entrance doors pushed open, and local law enforcement—led by federal agents holding federal warrants for corporate espionage and conspiracy—swarmed the restaurant.
The trap had snapped shut. Moretti’s entire network was collapsing in real-time.
