At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston's most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone

The silence in my third-floor apartment was so absolute that I could hear the rhythmic drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Dominic Romano didn’t move. He stood between my small kitchen table and the window, his broad silhouette blocking the faint amber glow of the streetlamp below.

“Chloe,” he said again, his voice dropping into a register that made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Step away from the glass. Right now.”

I looked down at the mug of instant coffee still steaming between my hands. “Dominic, this is Dorchester. Nobody knows where I live except my landlord and—”

Before I could finish the sentence, Dominic’s arm shot out. His hand clamped around my wrist with the speed of a striking viper, yanked me forward, and spun me behind his body. In the same fluid motion, his right hand reached beneath his charcoal-gray coat, pulling free a matte-black automatic handgun.

*Crack.*

The sound wasn’t like in the movies. It wasn’t a loud, booming blast. It was a sharp, vicious snap, like a bullwhip breaking the sound barrier, accompanied by the violent shattering of my kitchen window. A hail of safety glass exploded into the room, glittering like diamond dust under the fluorescent light.

A tiny, perfect hole appeared in the drywall directly behind where my head had been resting two seconds earlier.

I screamed, falling to my knees on the linoleum. The chipped coffee mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floorboards and splashing hot liquid across my shins.

“Stay down!” Dominic commanded. His body hovered over mine like an iron shield. He wasn’t panicked. His breathing was measured, cold, rhythmic. He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pressed a single speed-dial button on his phone, and held it to his ear without taking his eyes off the shattered window frame.

“Dante,” Dominic spoke into the receiver, his voice flat and terrifyingly steady. “Fourth floor of the brick tenement across the alley. High-caliber sniper. He missed. Take the nest. Now.”

From the street below, tires screeched against wet asphalt. The roar of heavy V8 engines echoed between the buildings, followed immediately by the rapid, muffled pops of suppressed gunfire.

Panic clawed at my throat. I couldn’t draw a full breath. The air tasted of copper, rain, and pulverized plaster. “They’re… they’re trying to kill me?”

“They’re trying to erase their loose ends,” Dominic said softly, never lowering his weapon. He glanced down at me. For a fraction of a second, the lethal chill in his dark eyes melted into something raw, fierce, and protective. “Give me your hand.”

“My things—my mother’s letters—”

“Dante’s team will sweep the apartment and recover your family belongings within the hour,” he answered, cutting through my spiraling terror with razor-sharp authority. “Right now, if you stay in this room, you will die. Look at me, Chloe.”

I looked up. Blood was trickling from a small scratch on his cheekbone where a shard of flying glass had grazed him, but he didn't even blink.

“You trusted your instincts at table four,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. “Trust them now. I am not letting anyone harm you.”

He pulled me to my feet. Before I could stumble, his arm circled my waist, lifting me clear of the shattered glass on the kitchen floor. He kicked open the rear door that led to the rusted metal fire escape.

The cold Boston rain hit us instantly, soaking my thin cotton cardigan and plastering my dark hair to my face. Down in the alleyway, two men in identical black tactical coats stood guard beside the running engine of an armored Suburban. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow, looked up and waved a clenched fist.

“Clear, Boss!” the man shouted over the rain. “Team two neutralized the shooter on the roof. More incoming from the south avenue.”

Dominic didn’t hesitate. He guided me down the iron stairs with impossible swiftness, shielding my back with his own torso. When my foot slipped on the slick metal of the lower landing, his grip caught me effortlessly before I could fall.

He deposited me into the plush leather interior of the middle SUV. The interior smelled of expensive leather, cedarwood, and the faint, bitter tang of gun oil.

“Lock the doors,” Dominic instructed the driver as he slid into the seat beside me, slamming the heavy door shut. The click of the electronic deadbolts sounded like a vault sealing shut.

I turned my head and looked through the tinted, bulletproof window. Through the rain-streaked glass, I could see my third-floor window. The lace curtains my mother had sewn before she entered hospice care were fluttering through the jagged hole, soaked by the pouring rain.

My home of seven years. Gone in forty-five seconds.

I began to tremble violently. The shock was setting in, freezing the blood in my veins. My teeth chattered so loudly I couldn't stop them.

Without a word, Dominic shrugged out of his charcoal-gray wool coat. It was dry on the inside, thick, and held the deep, comforting warmth of his body. He draped it around my shoulders, tucking the heavy lapels closely around my chest.

“Drink this,” he ordered softly, unscrewing a small silver flask from his breast pocket and handing it to me.

I took it with shaking hands. The liquid burned my throat like liquid fire, leaving the sweet, smoky taste of vintage bourbon behind. The heat broke the icy knot in my chest, allowing me to take a shuddering breath.

“Who was that?” I whispered, looking at him. “Who wants me dead?”

Dominic leaned back against the headrest. The streetlights flickered across his rugged profile as the SUV accelerated down the dark Dorchester streets, flanked by the other two vehicles.

“Three days ago, a synthetic nerve agent called *Novis-9* was slipped into my decanted Barolo at the restaurant,” Dominic said, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “It has no taste, no smell, and causes complete cardiovascular collapse within eight minutes. The medical examiner said it usually mimics a massive myocardial infarction.”

I stared at him, my mind racing back to that night. “Richard… Richard knew.”

Dominic turned his head toward me. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped in his cheek. “Your manager received a wire transfer of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into an offshore account in the Caymans twelve hours before I sat down at that table. His orders were simple: make sure nobody approached my booth until the poison finished its work.”

The horror twisted my stomach into a knot. “He stood there. He watched you suffocate.”

“He did,” Dominic agreed coldly. “And he would have succeeded. My bodyguards were stationed outside the front doors because I foolishly believed the dining room of a four-star establishment was neutral territory. If you hadn’t defied him—if you hadn’t forced your way to my table and called the emergency team—I would have been buried in the Romano family crypt by sunrise.”

“So why fire me?” I asked, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “Why not just… kill me then?”

“Because Richard is a coward,” Dominic said. “He panicked. When you made a public scene, twenty other diners pulled out their phones. If Richard had stopped you by force, or if an ambulance hadn’t arrived, the police would have opened an immediate homicide investigation. Firing you was his pathetic attempt to sweep you under the rug and appease the people who paid him.”

“Who paid him, Dominic?”

Dominic’s expression darkened into something ancient and predatory. “Marco Moretti. He controls the southern docks. For five years, we’ve held a fragile peace. But Moretti is getting old, desperate, and greedy. He thought if he removed me, Boston would fall into his lap without a war.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a solemn promise that resonated deep inside my bones.

“Moretti knows Richard failed because of a twenty-six-year-old waitress with more courage than sense. He sent a clean-up crew to silence you tonight so that no living witness could testify to Richard’s obstruction before Moretti could extract him from the country.”

I pulled his coat tighter around myself, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and rain. “And Richard? Where is he?”

Dominic’s lips curved into a cold, humorless line.