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

The hitman’s gun swiveled toward the girl in the yellow dress.

Harper didn’t think. If she had thought, she would have stayed behind the mahogany wait station. She would have pressed her face into the floorboards and prayed to a God she hadn't spoken to since her mother died. But she didn't think.

She saw a nineteen-year-old girl, paralyzed by terror, about to be erased from the world.

Harper moved.

She pushed off the floor with her cheap, slip-resistant shoes, launching herself across the open space. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and shattered wine bottles.

"Get down!" Harper screamed, tackling Bianca just as the hitman pulled the trigger.

The impact felt like being struck by a speeding truck. It wasn’t a sharp pain at first. It was a massive, concussive force that knocked the breath completely out of Harper’s lungs. She crashed into Bianca, sending them both sliding behind the thick marble pillar.

Then, the burning started.

A searing, white-hot agony tore through Harper’s left shoulder. She gasped, grabbing the wound. Warm, thick blood instantly poured through her fingers, soaking the crisp white fabric of her uniform blouse.

"Oh my God," Bianca sobbed, crawling over to her. The girl’s yellow dress was smeared with ash and Harper’s blood. "You're shot. You took it for me."

"Stay down," Harper wheezed, her vision swimming with black spots. "Don't move."

The gunfire in the restaurant suddenly reached a deafening crescendo. Harper heard the heavy, booming return fire of Dante’s weapon. A man screamed. Then another heavy thud hit the floor.

Then, sudden, terrifying silence.

Footsteps crunched over broken glass. Heavy, deliberate steps.

Harper tried to push herself up, instinctively trying to shield Bianca with her own bleeding body, but her arms gave out.

Dante Rossy rounded the pillar. His charcoal suit was dusted with drywall powder, his face completely devoid of expression. His gun was still raised. When he saw Bianca alive, unhurt, a fraction of the ice in his dark eyes melted.

But then he looked at Harper.

He took in the spreading pool of blood. He took in her cheap uniform. He saw exactly what had happened.

"Press this to her shoulder," Dante ordered his sister, tearing off his custom silk tie and handing it to Bianca. "Press hard."

Dante knelt beside Harper. His large, cold hands moved with clinical precision, checking the exit wound against her back. "It passed cleanly through the muscle. You're going to live, waitress. But you need to stay awake."

"Harper," she gasped out, fighting the darkness creeping into the edges of her vision. "My name is Harper."

Dante ripped her collar slightly to get better access to the wound. As the cheap fabric tore, a heavy object slipped out from beneath her undershirt and fell against her collarbone.

It was a tarnished bronze key, tied to a frayed piece of leather cord.

Dante froze. The absolute control he had maintained during a literal firefight suddenly vanished. His hands stopped moving. He stared at the key as if it were a ghost.

He grabbed the key, his fingers brushing against Harper's skin. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Harper groaned, the pain making her lightheaded. "My dad. It was my dad's."

Dante’s jaw clenched. He looked from the key to Harper's pale, sweating face. The cold mafia boss suddenly looked like a man who had just seen the ground drop out from beneath his feet.

"Your father," Dante whispered, the words sounding like a curse. "Your father was supposed to be dead twenty years ago."

Before Harper could ask what he meant, Dante scooped her effortlessly off the floor.

"We're moving," he barked at Bianca and his remaining guard. "Now."

As Dante carried her through the shattered remains of the restaurant, Harper’s head lolled against his chest. Her vision faded completely, leaving only the sound of his racing heartbeat.