The Mafia Boss Saw the Danger First—Then He Told the Waitress, “Stay Close and Call Me Your Husband.”

With Miles stabilized under an armed guard of twenty loyal men, Ambrose and Rosalind prepared for the final strike.

The ledger had revealed that Box 814 at Rhode Island Trust Company could only be unlocked with two physical components: the master key held in Ambrose’s vault, and an original embossed signet seal that Warren Halloway had hidden inside his old salvage workshop at the Providence harbor before he died.

“We don't need to go to the workshop,” Ambrose argued, checking the magazine of his customized tactical rifle in the armory. “I’ll send Thomas and a tactical team to retrieve the floorboards.”

“Thomas doesn't know where it is,” Rosalind countered, pulling on a black waterproof coat and sturdy leather boots. “My father didn't hide it under a floorboard, Ambrose. He hid it inside the casting block of the hydraulic book press. If your men try to pry that machine open with a crowbar, they’ll trigger the internal lead release and melt the wax matrix inside. Only I know how to release the pressure valve.”

Ambrose looked at her, his jaw set in a hard line. “It’s too dangerous. Vane knows that workshop is the origin of the ledger. He’ll have men watching it.”

“Then we go under cover of darkness, in and out in ten minutes,” Rosalind insisted, stepping up to him. She placed her hand flat against his chest, right over his beating heart. “You protected my brother, Ambrose. You risked your life for him. Now let me finish what my father started.”

Ambrose stared down into her determined eyes. He knew he couldn't stop her; Warren Halloway’s blood ran through her veins—the blood of a craftsman who never backed down from a fight.

“Five minutes,” Ambrose conceded, his voice low. “If anything looks wrong, we pull out immediately.”

At 2:00 in the morning, a single unmarked SUV slipped through the rain-soaked industrial district of the Providence docks.

The ruins of Warren Halloway’s workshop stood at the end of Commercial Street, surrounded by rusted chain-link fences and overgrown weeds. The brick structure was charred and blackened, its roof partially collapsed, a hollow skeleton of the life Rosalind had once known.

Thomas stayed in the vehicle with the engine idling at the perimeter gate, while Ambrose and Rosalind slipped through the rear entrance.

The air inside the ruined workshop smelled of damp earth, charred timber, and old ashes.

Rosalind’s heart squeezed with sudden, sharp grief. She looked toward the rear corner where she had once helped her father stitch leather spines while classical music played from a cheap transistor radio. That was where she had pulled her father from the flames, where the falling timber had scarred her arm forever.

Ambrose stood close behind her, his rifle raised, scanning the shadows with night-vision optics. “Rosalind. The press.”

Rosalind shook off the memories and moved to the heavy cast-iron book press resting on a concrete plinth in the center of the ruins. The machine was rusted, covered in soot, but the solid iron structure had survived the inferno.

She reached underneath the lower screw mechanism, feeling for the small, recessed brass release valve her father had welded into the frame.

Her fingers found the cold lever. She turned it three times counterclockwise, then pulled down.

A faint *click* echoed through the iron body.

A small steel compartment slid out from the base. Inside lay a heavy bronze wax seal bearing the insignia of the Halloway Guild—a compass crossed with a binding needle.

“I have it,” she whispered, grabbing the seal.

Suddenly, high-intensity halogen floodlights erupted outside, blinding the interior of the warehouse through the broken windows.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The sharp screech of tearing tires echoed across the asphalt.

*“Ambrose Raldi!”* Salvatore Vane’s voice boomed through an industrial megaphone. *“You didn't think I’d let you wander into my district without a welcoming party, did you?”*

Ambrose instantly shoved Rosalind behind the concrete plinth just as a hail of automatic gunfire shattered every remaining glass window in the workshop.

Bullets chewed through the brick walls, sending clouds of dust and stone shards raining down on them.

Ambrose keyed his radio. “Thomas! Report!”

Static screamed over the channel, followed by Thomas’s strained voice: *“Boss! Four armored trucks just blocked the gate! We’re surrounded! I’m pinned behind the loading dock!”*

Ambrose cursed under his breath. He looked at Rosalind. “They tracked the transponder in the city grid. They’ve got fifty men out there.”

“Ambrose...” Rosalind’s voice shook, but she gripped his arm. “There’s an old drainage tunnel under the glue vat. It leads directly to the tidal outlet at pier three. If we can reach the basement hatch—”

A heavy grenade shattered through the roof, landing twenty feet away.

“Get down!” Ambrose roared.

He threw his entire body over Rosalind, shielding her completely as the grenade detonated.

The blast wave threw them against the concrete wall. Chunks of masonry crashed around them. Ambrose grunted in agony as a heavy piece of shrapnel tore across his side, but he never let go of Rosalind.

The dust cleared. Through the ringing in her ears, Rosalind heard the heavy crunch of tactical boots entering the warehouse.

“Sweep the floor!” Julian Vane’s voice barked from the main entrance. “Kill Raldi! Bring the girl alive!”

Ambrose pulled his sidearm, but his vision blurred from the blast concussion, blood soaking through his tactical vest. He tried to rise, but his legs faltered.

“Rosalind,” he wheezed, thrusting the pistol into her hands. “Take the hatch. Go. Now.”

Rosalind looked at the gun in her hands, then at Ambrose, bleeding and vulnerable on the floor.

Six years ago, she had run from this fire to survive. She had spent six years hiding, bowing her head to cruel men, serving coffee to monsters who laughed at her father’s grave.

She was done running.

Rosalind stood up behind the concrete plinth. She racked the slide of the Sig Sauer, exactly as Ambrose had taught her in the vault.

Two of Vane’s mercenaries stepped into the clearing, their assault rifles raised.

Rosalind didn't hesitate. She stepped out, leveled the pistol with both hands, and fired three rapid shots.

The first round struck the lead mercenary in the chest; the second took the second shooter down before he could raise his barrel. Both collapsed to the soot-covered floor.

Ambrose looked up at her from the ground, his eyes wide with stunned reverence.

Rosalind grabbed Ambrose under his uninjured arm, hoisting him up with every ounce of strength she possessed. “I told you, Ambrose: you don't get to die on me.”

She dragged him toward the iron hatch behind the ruined glue vat.

Just as they reached the hatch, a shadow blocked the entrance.

Julian Vane stepped into the light, a shotgun leveled at Rosalind’s chest. A vicious grin spread across his face.

“End of the line, waitress,” Julian sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Before Julian could fire, a massive black SUV smashed through the warehouse’s brick wall, crushing Julian Vane beneath three tons of reinforced steel and shattered masonry.

Thomas kicked open the driver’s door, an assault rifle firing from his hip, sweeping the remaining shooters in the doorway.

“Get in!” Thomas roared over the gunfire. “The Don’s cavalry is behind me!”

Sirens howled as six black Suburbans bearing the Raldi family crest tore through the gates, unloading thirty heavily armed syndicate enforcers who instantly overwhelmed Vane’s trapped forces.

Rosalind hauled Ambrose into the back seat of the SUV as Thomas threw the vehicle into reverse, speeding through the smoking breach in the wall out into the rainy night.

Inside the car, Rosalind collapsed against the leather seat, pulling Ambrose’s head into her lap. She pressed her hands against the wound on his side, tears streaming down her face as she looked down into his pale, battered features.

Ambrose reached up with a bloodstained hand, his fingers tangling weakly in her dark hair.

“You shot them,” he coughed, a faint, ragged smile touching his lips.

“You’re an idiot,” she sobbed, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his bloodstained lips. “You’re an arrogant, reckless idiot, and I love you.”

Ambrose’s hand tightened against her neck, pulling her down until his mouth met hers with fierce, unyielding devotion.