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

The words hung in the freezing harbor fog like a death sentence.

My uncle.

Félix Marchand wasn't just a monster who had hunted my mother. He was her own flesh and blood. He was the man who had ordered his sister’s murder because she dared to use the family money to save lives instead of selling them.

"Sophie," Dominic said, his voice anchoring me as the world spun. He pulled me up by my shoulders. "We have to move. Now."

I left Vivienne bleeding on the pavement, surrounded by two of Dominic’s men calling for an underground medic.

I didn't feel shock anymore. The terror had crystallized into something sharp, cold, and profoundly lethal. I reached into my coat pocket and wrapped my hand around the heavy brass key.

Dominic and I moved through the maze of towering shipping containers. The fog was so thick it swallowed the light from the harbor lamps. The only sound was the sloshing of the black water against the wooden pylons of the pier.

Container 404.

We found it at the very edge of the dock, teetering precariously close to the drop-off into the freezing East River.

The heavy iron doors were wide open, spilling harsh yellow halogen light out into the fog.

Dominic held up a fist. We pressed our backs against the rusted metal of the adjacent container. I peered around the edge.

Inside Container 404, there were no crates of stolen art. There were no drugs.

There were dozens of rusted iron shackles bolted to the floor. The remnants of human cargo.

Standing in the center of the horrific space was an older man in a tailored charcoal coat. He had sharp, aristocratic features and graying hair. I recognized his jawline instantly. It was a cruel, twisted reflection of my mother’s face.

Félix Marchand.

And sitting on a wooden shipping crate, bound with heavy plastic zip-ties, was Leo.

The little boy was shivering uncontrollably, his face pale with terror. But his chin was jutted out, and he was staring fiercely at the ground, trying so hard to be brave.

My heart physically ached, a sharp, twisting pain in my chest.

"Félix," Dominic’s voice echoed through the metal canyon.

Dominic stepped out into the open, his gun raised. I stepped out right behind him, the heavy ledgers clutched in my left arm.

Marchand didn't flinch. He smiled. A slow, chilling expression.

Six heavily armed men materialized from the shadows of the container, raising automatic weapons, painting laser sights on Dominic’s chest.

"Dominic Reyes," Marchand said. His English was flawless, but wrapped in a thick, upper-class French accent. "The boy who plays at being a king. You brought my property."

"I brought the ledgers," Dominic said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Let the boy go, and you walk away tonight."

Marchand laughed. "You think you are in a position to negotiate? You are standing on my dock. Surrounded by my men."

Marchand walked over to Leo. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of the boy’s dark hair, yanking his head back.

Leo let out a sharp cry of pain.

"Stop!" I screamed, stepping past Dominic.

Marchand looked at me. His eyes were cold, dead things.

"Ah," Marchand said softly. "Little Sophie. You have your mother’s eyes. It’s a pity you share her foolish sentimentality. Helene stole millions from our family to save rats who belonged in the gutter."

"She was a hero," I spat, my voice shaking with rage. "You’re a butcher."

"I am a businessman," Marchand corrected, pulling a heavy silver revolver from his coat and pressing the barrel against the side of Leo’s tiny head.

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling down his cold cheeks. "Sophie..." he whimpered.

"Give me the ledgers, and toss the locket onto the floor," Marchand commanded. "Or I blow your nephew's brains out, and we fish the books off your corpse."

Dominic stepped slightly in front of me. "Don't do it, Sophie. He’ll shoot anyway."

I looked at the six armed guards. I looked at the gun against Leo’s head.

Then, I looked at the ledgers in my arms.

I took a deep breath, letting the freezing harbor air fill my lungs.

I didn't speak to Marchand in English.

I looked directly at the six guards holding the automatic weapons, and I spoke in rapid, flawless, heavily-accented Marseille French.

"Vous êtes des hommes morts si vous le suivez." (You are dead men if you follow him.)

The guards blinked, momentarily confused by the waitress speaking their native dialect perfectly.

"Les livres de comptes prouvent qu'il vous vole depuis cinq ans," I continued loudly, projecting my voice off the metal walls. (The ledgers prove he has been stealing from you for five years.) "Regardez la page quarante ! Il a pris votre part de l'affaire de Lyon." (Look at page forty! He took your cut of the Lyon deal.)

Doubt flickered in the eyes of the two men closest to Marchand. Honor among thieves was fragile, and money was the only true religion here.

"Shut up!" Marchand snapped, his composure slipping.

"Il va vous tuer ce soir pour couvrir ses traces !" I screamed. (He’s going to kill you tonight to cover his tracks!)

For one crucial, hesitant second, the guard on the left lowered his weapon to look at Marchand.

It was the only second Dominic needed.

Dominic grabbed the stack of black ledgers from my arms and hurled them as hard as he could—not at Marchand, but straight out the open doors, over the edge of the pier, into the black, freezing water of the East River.