The Mafia Boss's Mother And The Waitress

I stared at the shattered glass, my breath catching in my throat. My mother screamed, backing into the counter.

I picked up the watch. The glass face was cracked, but the engraving on the back was still there: To my anchor, L.B.

My initials.

I didn't wait for my mother to explain. I ran out of the apartment, dialing the number Vincent had written on the back of his business card. He picked up on the first ring.

“They found us,” I gasped, running down the street.

“I have men two blocks away,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Get in the black sedan at the corner. Now.”

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a heavily armored car, speeding toward the Caruso estate. When we pulled through the iron gates, Vincent was waiting on the steps.

I practically shoved the gold watch into his chest. “They threw this through the window. They have my father.”

Vincent looked at the watch, his jaw clenching. He guided me inside into a massive, quiet study. Eleanor was there, sitting by a fire, wrapped in a shawl. She looked frail, completely different from the sharp woman at the restaurant.

“Lucy,” she smiled warmly, though her eyes were cloudy. “Did you bring the tea?”

I looked at Vincent in confusion.

“Her memory is slipping,” Vincent whispered to me. “Dementia. It comes and goes. That’s why she was so confused at the restaurant. She snuck out to find your restaurant because she remembered your father’s last name.”

My heart broke. I walked over and gently held the older woman’s hands.

Vincent paced the room. “The Moretti family took your father. They want to trade him for my mother. It's a twenty-year-old grudge.”

“Then we go to the police,” I said.

Vincent stopped, looking at me with a tragic sort of pity. “We can't. The man who gave the Morettis your father’s location was a cop.”

He turned around, picking up a tablet from his desk. He pressed play on a security video. It was footage of my restaurant's alleyway from yesterday.