Chapter 6 - The Intruder
My panic lasted for exactly two seconds. Then maternal survival instincts, honed through months of arguing with cold hospital doctors and fighting for my dying child, flared up like gasoline.
I brought the heel of my boot down violently onto Vincent's instep.
He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench my face free.
"Touch me again," I whispered, my voice shaking with raw fury rather than fear, "and I won't scream for Mr. Moretti. I'll bite your throat open right here."
Vincent stared at me, genuinely shocked. He expected a terrified waitress who would cower and weep. He didn't expect a mother who had already lived through her worst nightmare and had nothing left to lose.
Before he could react, the study door swung open with a resounding bang.
Light flooded the hallway.
Ricardo stood on the threshold, a silver Colt .45 resting loosely in his right hand. His eyes took in the scene in an instant: Vincent backed against the wall, my fists clenched, the lingering tension in the air.
"Vincent," Ricardo said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Vincent stepped back immediately, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just making sure the help knows her way around the house, boss. Found her wandering in the dark."
"Your office is on the south wing," Ricardo said, not taking his eyes off his lieutenant. "If I see you in the family quarters again without my explicit command, you won't need your legs to walk out. Am I understood?"
Vincent's jaw worked silently. He cast one final, poisonous glare at me before turning on his heel and disappearing down the corridor.
Ricardo let out a slow breath and holstered the weapon behind his back. He stepped closer to me, his gaze sweeping over my face, searching for tears, for trembling. He found neither.
"Did he hurt you?" he asked quietly.
"No," I replied, smoothing down my sweater. "I've had drunk customers worse than him on dollar-draft nights."
A ghost of an amused smirk touched his lips, but his eyes remained deadly serious. "Vincent is dangerous. He believes sentiment is a disease."
"Is that why you keep him around?"
"I keep him around because he is loyal to the organization. But his loyalty is to the syndicate, not to my son." Ricardo reached out, his thumb gently brushing against a red mark on my wrist where Vincent had grabbed me.
His touch was surprisingly warm, sending a strange, electric spark straight through my skin. I didn't pull away.
"You should have screamed," he murmured, his eyes dropping to my wrist.
"Screaming wakes up babies," I whispered. "Leo just fell asleep."
Ricardo looked up into my eyes. For a long, suffocating moment, the space between us seemed to evaporate. The feared Don of New York, standing six inches from a former waitress in the middle of the night, looked completely defenseless.
The spell was shattered by the shrill ring of the downstairs bell, followed by the clacking of high heels on the marble foyer below.
"Ricardo!" a woman's voice echoed up the grand staircase—cultured, loud, and dripping with entitlement. "Tell your guards to take their hands off my luggage this instant!"
Ricardo closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw.
"Who is that?" I asked.
May you like
"The devil," Ricardo whispered, stepping back. "Sofia Rossi."
***