“Don't Be Afraid… I'm Here,” Poor Waitress Said — She Took a Hit For The Mafia Boss's Sister

Over the next four days, the Collazo estate operated like a high-security sanctuary.

Finn thrived in a way Mave had never seen. Free from the cold drafts and mold-stained walls of their East Boston flat, the color began to return to his cheeks. Sofia spent hours with him in the sunlit conservatory, teaching him how to sketch animals with charcoal and building elaborate Lego fortresses on the oriental rugs.

Finn worshipped Sofia, but his real hero was Rafe.

Every evening at six, when Rafe returned from his offices at Collazo Maritime, Finn would wait by the foyer archway. The formidable mafia boss—a man whose whispered name made city councilmen sweat and harbor dockworkers fall silent—would toss his leather gloves onto the entry table, crouch down to Finn’s eye level, and listen with grave seriousness to Finn’s report on how many miniature waffles he had consumed that morning.

Mave watched from the balcony, a dangerous, aching warmth blooming in her chest.

She was healing physically, but the psychological tension in the house was palpable. Rafe was rarely at rest. Armed men patrolled the grounds day and night. Dante carried an automatic weapon beneath his jacket at all times.

On Wednesday evening, the night before Finn’s surgery, Mave found herself unable to sleep. Her shoulder ached, but the terror about the operating table was ten times worse.

She walked downstairs in her bare feet, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and trousers that Elena had provided. The house was dark, save for a sliver of light spilling from the double doors of the library.

Mave pushed the door open quietly.

The library was lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes reaching two stories high. A fire smoldered low in the stone hearth. Rafe sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, surrounded by architectural blueprints of the harbor terminals, surveillance photographs, and an amber glass of scotch.

He looked up the moment she stepped across the threshold, his eyes instantly locking onto hers.

"You should be resting," he said, setting his pen down.

"I can't," Mave said, crossing the room to stand near the warmth of the fire. "Every time I close my eyes, I see surgical monitors. I see lines going flat."

Rafe rose from behind the desk, bringing his scotch glass with him. He walked over to the fireplace, leaning one shoulder against the mantle, watching her through the amber light of the flames.

"Dr. Vance has performed this procedure over six hundred times with a ninety-nine percent success rate," Rafe said quietly. "Finn is strong. He survived this long because you kept him alive through sheer willpower."

"I was failing him," Mave whispered, wrapping her good right arm around her waist. "Before that night at Salt Line, I had forty-two dollars in my checking account. The pharmacy was threatening to hold his prescription. If I hadn't been in that dining room..."

"If you hadn't been in that dining room, my sister would be in a morgue," Rafe countered, his voice hard with conviction. "Fate doesn't make mistakes, Mave."

She looked up at him, studying the harsh, beautiful lines of his face. "Who wants to hurt your family, Rafe? Really?"

Rafe paused, taking a slow sip of his drink. He wasn't used to explaining himself to anyone, let alone an East Boston waitress with eyes like stormy seas.

"Vincenzo Moretti," Rafe said finally. "His family controlled the northern shipping lanes for thirty years through extortion, narcotics, and union manipulation. When my father died, I took those docks from him. I cleaned out the drugs, brought legitimate commerce to the harbor, and squeezed Moretti into a corner. He’s drowning financially. In his world, when you cannot win in business, you strike at the bloodline."

"And you live like this every day?"

"I live prepared," Rafe answered. "The only thing I value in this world is my family. Until four days ago, that circle consisted solely of Sofia."

He set his glass down on the mantel and took a deliberate step toward her. The space between them evaporated. Mave’s pulse leaped into her throat, not from fear, but from the raw, magnetic intensity radiating from him.

"And now?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.

Rafe reached out, his calloused fingertips lightly brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the soft curve of her jawline. The touch was burning, reverent.

"Now," Rafe murmured, his grey eyes darkening with possessive heat, "that circle includes you and Finn. Anyone who looks at either of you with malice will answer to me in blood."

Mave forgot how to breathe. The air between them grew electric, thick with unspoken longing. For a second, as Rafe’s gaze dropped to her lips, she thought he would kiss her. She wanted him to.

A sharp knock on the library door broke the spell.

Dante stepped inside, his expression grim. "Boss. We have a problem at the warehouse. Moretti’s crew just intercepted one of our fuel convoys on Route 1. And Gerald Moss was picked up trying to enter Moretti’s social club in the North End."

Rafe’s expression instantly hardened into stone. The tender man from a second ago vanished, replaced by the lethal predator who ruled Boston’s underworld.