Every Friday the Mafia Boss Waited for the Same Train Until the Clerk Asked Who Was Supposed to Come Home

By Tuesday, the rain had cleared, leaving behind a sky as pale and sharp as chipped glass.

Hawthorne Junction was quiet at two in the afternoon. The rush hour was hours away, and the station smelled of old wax, dry radiators, and the stale chocolate cake Dale had bought from the diner down the street.

Cece was punching ticket stubs for the afternoon local when the glass double doors swung open.

It wasn't Max.

Two men stepped into the waiting room. They didn't wear suit coats like Marcus. They wore heavy leather jackets, grease-stained jeans, and baseball caps pulled low over their eyes. Their eyes didn't rest on the timetable board or the vending machines; they swept the room like men looking for a fire exit, finally locking onto Cece behind her reinforced ticket window.

The taller one—a thick-necked man with a jagged scar across his chin—strode up to the counter. He didn't tap on the glass. He slammed his palm against it hard enough to make the brass speaker rattle.

"Hey, sweetheart," he grunted. His voice smelled of cheap whisky and old tobacco. "Where's Corvelli?"

Cece didn't flinch. Seven years of managing her father's temper and dealing with angry commuters had given her a nervous system made of tempered steel.

"Tickets are seven dollars to Manhattan, twelve to Albany," Cece said calmly, resting her hands flat on the wooden ledge. "If you're looking for a train, schedule's on the wall."

The man leaned closer, his yellowed teeth showing in a dull snarl. "Don't play cute with me, big girl. We know he comes here. Every Friday like clockwork. We want to know where he goes after he leaves this station."

"He goes to his car," Cece said. "Then his car drives away. That's how transportation works."

The second man stepped up, reaching into his leather jacket. "Listen to me, bitch—"

"I suggest you take your hand out of your coat," a deep, quiet voice echoed from the archway leading to the platform.

The air in the waiting room transformed instantly.

Max stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket today—just a charcoal vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled past his forearms to reveal the dark, intricate ink covering his skin. In his right hand, he carried a heavy steel wrench. In his left, two paper cups of coffee from the diner down the block.

Behind him, Marcus moved into position near the exit doors, silently sliding a heavy brass deadbolt into place.

The thick-necked man spun around, his hand instinctively going for his belt. "Corvelli—"

Max didn't raise his voice. He didn't rush. He walked forward with the calm, predatory grace of a man who owned every square inch of the building he stood in.

He set the two coffee cups neatly on Cece's ticket ledge.

Then, without looking at the man with the chin scar, Max swung the steel wrench in a short, brutal arc.

CLANG.

The heavy metal struck the wrought-iron radiator right next to the tall man's knee, shattering the iron decorative casing into a dozen jagged pieces. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room like a gunshot.

Both men jumped back, their faces draining of color.

"This is a public station," Max said softly, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass windows vibrate. "Miss Rowan is an employee of the state. If you speak to her again, if you step onto this platform again, or if you even think her name while you're sitting in your cheap bar across the river... I will personally introduce your kneecaps to a meat locker in Newark."

The tall man swallowed hard, his eyes darting from the steel wrench in Max's hand to Marcus standing by the locked doors.

"We were just asking—"

"You're leaving," Max corrected.

Marcus unlocked the door and threw it open. The two men practically stumbled over each other as they scrambled out into the cold afternoon air, the sound of their boots retreating down the concrete steps.

The station fell silent again.

Dale slowly peeked his head out from the maintenance closet, holding his screwdriver like a defensive dagger. He looked at the shattered radiator, then at Max, and then quietly slid back into his closet and closed the door.

Cece looked at the steel wrench sitting on her counter, then up at Max. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her hands were entirely steady.

"You broke public property," she said.

Max took a slow breath, setting the wrench down beside the coffee cups. "I'll write the state a check."

"Dale was fixing that radiator."

"I'll buy him a new one." Max looked at her through the glass, his dark eyes searching her face for any sign of fear. "Did they touch you, Cece?"

It was the first time he had used her name. It sounded heavy, real, and surprisingly warm in his low voice.

"No," Cece said softly. "They didn't get the chance."

Max reached through the ticket window, his large, warm fingers brushing lightly against her wrist. His touch sent a shiver straight down her spine—not of terror, but of something hot, intense, and long-forgotten.

"They're DeLuca's men," Max said quietly. "They think because I sit on that bench every week, I've gone soft. They think Hawthorne Junction is a blind spot."

"Is it?" Cece asked.