The Mafia Boss’s Date Mocked the Waitress—Then She Read the Entire French Wine List

The world did not spin. It stopped entirely.

I dropped the phone. A raw, guttural scream tore itself from my throat, a sound I didn't know I was capable of making. I lunged for the open door of the moving SUV, completely blinded by panic.

Dominic caught me around the waist, hauling me backward onto the leather seat.

"Let me go!" I shrieked, fighting him with every ounce of strength I had, scratching at his hands. "He has Leo! He has my baby!"

"Sophie, stop!" Dominic roared, pinning my arms to my sides. He didn't hurt me, but his grip was like iron. "If you jump out of this car, you die. And if you die, Leo has no one."

The logic pierced through the sheer terror. I collapsed against Dominic’s chest, sobbing hysterically, gasping for air.

Dominic wrapped his arms around me tightly, pressing his face into my hair. I felt his heart hammering against his ribs, beating in time with my own panic.

"Driver," Dominic barked over my sobs. "Reroute. Pier 41. Call every man we have. Empty the clubs, the warehouses, the docks. If they aren't at the pier in ten minutes with weapons hot, they’re dead to me."

He was risking everything. His legitimate businesses, his freedom, his life. For a waitress and a six-year-old boy.

"Marchand wants the ledgers," I choked out, pulling away from his chest, wiping my face with trembling hands. "And he wants my mother’s locket. Why the locket? What does it do?"

I pulled the small oval gold necklace from beneath my shirt. I had worn it every day for twelve years. I had never been able to open it; the tiny clasp had been fused shut, or so I thought.

Dominic took the locket in his large, calloused hands. He examined the edges under the dim reading light of the SUV.

"It’s not fused," he said quietly. "It’s pressure-locked."

He placed his thumbs on the specific indentations of the oval and pressed hard, twisting counter-clockwise.

With a sharp click, the gold locket popped open.

There was no picture inside.

There was a micro-engraving etched directly into the gold, and nestled beneath it was a tiny, tarnished silver coin.

I leaned in, squinting at the tiny French text.

Conteneur 404. Navire d'hiver.

"Container 404. The Winter Ship," I translated aloud.

Dominic picked up the tiny silver coin. He rubbed his thumb over the face of it. It wasn't money. It was stamped with the image of a wolf.

"This is a passage token," Dominic said, a cold fury bleeding into his voice. "The highest level of clearance in the European underworld. If Marchand gets this coin and the ledgers, he can rebuild his entire trafficking empire. He can move thousands of people, and no one would dare stop him."

"Then we give it to him," I said fiercely. "I don't care about the empire. I want my nephew."

"If we hand this over," Dominic warned softly, "Marchand will kill us anyway. He leaves no loose ends."

"Then what do we do?"

Before Dominic could answer, the SUV slammed to a violent halt.

We had arrived at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Pier 41. The air was thick with freezing harbor fog and the smell of diesel and rotting fish.

We stepped out of the vehicle. Dominic’s men were already fanning out into the darkness, silent and lethal.

As we moved toward the towering stacks of shipping containers, a low groan echoed from the wet pavement near a rusted forklift.

Dominic raised his weapon, stepping in front of me.

Lying on the freezing concrete, clutching her stomach, was Vivienne Chase. Her beautiful red lipstick was smeared, and dark blood was pooling beneath her black trench coat.

I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside the woman who had held a gun to my head an hour ago.

"Vivienne!" I pressed my hands against the gunshot wound in her abdomen, trying to stem the bleeding.

She coughed, a wet, horrible sound. She grabbed my wrist with a bloody hand.

"He double-crossed me," Vivienne gasped, her eyes wide with shock and pain. "I thought... I thought we were going to share the ports. He shot me the second I walked in."

"Where is Leo?" I demanded, leaning over her.

Vivienne’s eyes flickered toward the towering labyrinth of metal boxes.

"He’s not loading him onto a ship," Vivienne whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of her mouth. "Marchand isn't just a smuggler, Sophie. You don't know who he is, do you?"

"Who is he?" Dominic demanded, kneeling beside us.