The Mafia Boss's Mother And The Waitress

I bit down hard on Whitman’s hand.

He cursed and jerked back. I swung the cast-iron pan with everything I had, catching him hard in the shoulder. He dropped the gun, but he was bigger than me. He shoved me into the marble island, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

“You stupid girl,” Whitman sneered, holding his injured shoulder. “You think Vincent Caruso is a hero? You think he went to save your dad?”

I scrambled for the dropped gun, but Whitman kicked it out of reach.

“Caruso’s father was the one who put a hit on your dad twenty years ago!” Whitman laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. “Your dad found out the Carusos were trafficking weapons through his mechanic shop. He tried to go to the cops. The Morettis didn't kidnap him today, Lucy. Vincent Caruso did.”

My blood ran cold. Was it true? Had I trusted the very monster who destroyed my family?

“Vincent told me the Morettis wanted to trade him for Eleanor,” I said, trying to stall as I edged toward the kitchen knife block.

“Vincent lied. He wants your dad dead to tie up loose ends, and he wanted you trapped here so you couldn't go to the feds.” Whitman pulled a zip-tie from his pocket. “But the Morettis pay better. I’m taking the old lady, and I’m leaving you here.”

“No you’re not.”

We both froze.

Standing in the doorway was Eleanor. She was holding a heavy silver revolver, and her hands weren't shaking at all. Her eyes were sharp, entirely lucid.

“Mrs. Caruso,” Whitman raised his hands slowly. “Put the gun down. You don't know what you're doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, Mr. Whitman,” Eleanor said, her voice dripping with old-school Brooklyn steel. “I may lose my memory from time to time, but I never forget a rat.”

She cocked the hammer. “Lucy, dear. Pick up his gun.”

I quickly grabbed Whitman’s weapon.

Eleanor kept her gun trained on Whitman, but she looked at me. “He’s half-right, Lucy. My late husband did try to kill your father. But he didn't succeed.”