The Mafia Boss Thought He Was Dead Meat—Until the Chubby Waitress Grabbed His Gun

The address on Grave Street was a dilapidated auto repair shop hidden behind a rusted chain-link fence. High brick walls surrounded the property, topped with razor wire that gleamed slick in the pouring rain.

Delphine pulled the Impala up to the iron gate, leaned out her window, and punched the code into the battered brass keypad: 4-2-0-0.

The heavy gates groaned, swinging slowly inward.

She drove through, parking the car in the shadows behind an old tow truck. Before she could even turn off the ignition, three doors on the side of the shop flew open. Four men in dark raincoats sprinted into the yard, weapons drawn, surrounding the Impala in a tight tactical circle.

“Get out of the car!” a man yelled, his voice rough and commanding. “Hands on your head!”

Delphine didn't panic this time. The sheer absurdity of the night had pushed her past fear into a state of deep, sarcastic exhaustion. She pushed open her door, stepped out into the rain, and raised her thick arms into the air.

“He's in the passenger seat!” she shouted over the downpour. “He's bled through half my seat cushion! If you're gonna shoot me, do it after you carry him inside, because my lower back is killing me!”

An older man stepped out from behind the armed guards. He had slicked-back gray hair, a thick mustache, and wore a gold crucifix over a dark wool sweater.

This was Sal.

Sal looked at Delphine’s blood-soaked apron, then looked inside the car. His face hardened instantly. “Boss!” he yelled, motioning to his men. “Get him inside! Move! Move!”

Two men rushed forward, unbuckling Victor and carefully hauling his unconscious body out of the Impala.

Sal stepped up to Delphine. He was shorter than her, his sharp brown eyes scanning her broad frame, taking in the coffee stains, the orthopedic shoes, and the cold, unyielding glare in her eyes.

“Who are you?” Sal demanded, his hand resting on the butt of a pistol tucked into his belt.

“Delphine Mercer,” she said, lowering her arms and wiping rain from her eyes. “I work the night shift at the Blue Moon. Three guys walked in to put a hole in your boss. He lost his gun. I picked it up and shot the guy who called me big girl.”

Sal blinked. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked down at the blood on her apron, then back up at her face.

“You shot Hector Reyes?” Sal asked quietly.

“In the knee,” Delphine corrected. “Though I was aiming for his chest. Your boss dragged me out the back before his friends showed up.”

Sal stared at her for three long seconds. Then, slowly, a deep chuckle broke out from beneath his gray mustache. “Well, I'll be damned. The great Victor Ashford saved by a waitress from South Philly.”

“I'm thirty-seven years old,” Delphine growled, crossing her thick arms over her chest. “And I'm not a girl. Now, is somebody going to fix him, or did I ruin my favorite work shoes for nothing?”

Sal’s smile faded, replaced by absolute respect. “Come inside, Miss Mercer. Out of the cold.”

Inside the auto shop, behind a false wall lined with tire racks, was a fully equipped medical suite. It looked like a hospital room, complete with surgical lights, stainless steel tables, and medical monitors. An old doctor in a blood-stained coat was already cutting open Victor’s expensive suit jacket.

“How is he, Doc?” Sal asked, stepping up to the surgical bed.

“The bullet missed his kidney by an inch,” the doctor said, scrubbing his hands at a small sink. “He lost a lot of blood, but he's tough as an ox. He'll live. But he needs six hours of rest minimum.”

Delphine stood near the door, feeling completely out of place among the chrome fixtures and armed guards. The adrenaline was finally leaving her system, replaced by a deep, bone-crushing fatigue. Her feet burned, her lower back throbbed, and her stomach let out a loud, rumbling growl that echoed through the quiet room.

Sal turned around, a faint smirk on his lips. “When was the last time you ate, Miss Mercer?”

“Yesterday at four in the afternoon,” Delphine said grumpily. “I was saving a slice of chocolate cream pie for my break, but somebody shot the display case.”

Sal turned to one of his men. “Tommy, run to the 24-hour deli on Broad. Get her two pastrami sandwiches on rye, extra meat, a large order of fries, and a black coffee.”

“And a slice of pie,” Delphine added sharply. “If they have apple, I'll take apple.”

Sal grinned, nodding to the guard. “You heard the lady. Move.”

While the doctor worked on Victor, Sal led Delphine into a small side office furnished with a leather sofa, a heavy oak desk, and a wall of security monitors displaying the street outside.

“Drink this,” Sal said, handing her a crystal glass filled with amber liquid.

“What is it?”

“Eighteen-year-old scotch. It helps with the shakes.”

Delphine took a sip. It burned like liquid fire sliding down her throat, but within seconds, a deep warmth spread through her chest. She sank onto the leather sofa, resting her elbows on her broad knees.

“So,” Delphine said, looking at the security monitors. “Who were those men?”

Sal sat behind the desk, his hands clasped together. “The man who tried to kill Victor was Hector Reyes. He's a lieutenant for the Moretti family. For the last six months, the Morettis have been trying to take over the shipping docks along the Delaware River. Victor refused to sell.”

“So they decided to shoot him in a diner,” Delphine said flatly.

“They had an insider,” Sal admitted coldly. “Somebody told Reyes where Victor was going tonight. Victor thought he was meeting a quiet contact. Instead, he walked into a trap.”

He looked at Delphine, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Which means, Miss Mercer... Reyes' people know where that diner is. And by now, they know a heavy-set waitress left in a red Impala.”