THE WAITRESS AND THE DON

I slammed my fist onto the control panel, pressing the intercom button that connected to Antonio’s radio.

“Antonio! It’s Elena! The maid! She’s the mole! She’s outside Leo’s room right now!”

Static hissed back. “Sophie, the comms are jammed. I can barely—” The radio died.

I couldn't stay in the bunker. I couldn't let that woman get to a seven-year-old boy. I looked at Maria. She was deeply asleep, her vitals stable. She was safe behind the steel door.

I grabbed a heavy metal oxygen tank wrench from the supply cart. I hit the manual override for the clinic door. It hissed open.

I ran up the stairs, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The mansion was eerily quiet, the sound of gunfire muffled in the distance near the front gates. The real attack was a diversion. Marco’s true goal was Leo.

I reached the second floor, kicking off my shoes so I could move silently in my stocking feet.

The door to Leo’s nursery was cracked open.

I crept forward, tightening my grip on the wrench. I peeked through the gap.

Elena was standing over Leo’s bed. The little boy was asleep, clutching the carved wooden bear I had seen earlier. Elena raised the syringe, her face twisted in a cold, clinical sneer.

I didn't think. I kicked the door open.

“Get away from him!” I screamed.

Elena spun around. She didn't look scared; she looked annoyed. “You should have stayed in the basement, waitress.”

She lunged at me. I swung the wrench, catching her hard on the wrist. She shrieked, dropping the syringe, but she was faster than I expected. She tackled me to the ground. We rolled across the plush white rug, knocking over a lamp.

“Marco promised me a fortune for the boy!” she hissed, her hands closing around my throat. “The Morettis want Antonio’s bloodline ended!”

I gagged, clawing at her hands. Black spots danced in my vision. I reached out blindly, my fingers brushing against the shattered pieces of the picture frame that had been on the floor earlier. I grabbed a jagged shard of glass and drove it into her shoulder.

Elena screamed, rolling off me.

I scrambled to my feet, gasping for air. Leo was awake now, sitting up in bed, his eyes wide with terror.

“Leo, run!” I choked out.

The boy scrambled out of bed and ran toward me. I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hallway.

“Where are we going?” Leo cried.

“To find your dad,” I said, dragging him toward the main staircase.

But as we reached the landing, the front doors of the mansion blew open with a deafening crash. Splinters of wood showered the foyer.

Marco stepped into the house, flanked by three men with assault rifles. He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek, looking up the staircase directly at me. He smiled, a terrifying, predatory grin, his snake tattoo flexing on his neck.

“Well, well. If it isn't the invisible waitress,” Marco sneered. He raised a handgun, pointing it directly at Leo’s chest. “Give me the kid, Sophie. And I’ll let you walk out of here and go back to your dear old grandmother.”

I pulled Leo behind me, shielding his body with my own. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“That can be arranged,” Marco said, clicking the hammer back.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed through the foyer. But it didn't come from Marco’s gun.

Marco’s shoulder exploded in a mist of red. He screamed, dropping his weapon and falling to his knees.

Antonio stepped out from the shadows of the dining room. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, his suit ruined, but he looked like an avenging angel. Enzo was right behind him, laying down suppression fire that dropped two of Marco’s men instantly. The third surrendered, dropping his rifle.

Antonio walked slowly up to Marco, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder, writhing on the marble floor.

“You came into my home,” Antonio said, his voice a lethal whisper. “You touched my son. You threatened the woman I—”

Antonio stopped. He looked up at me, standing at the top of the stairs, still shielding his son. Our eyes locked, and in that split second of distraction, Marco pulled a small backup pistol from his ankle holster.

“Antonio, look out!” I screamed.

Marco fired.

Antonio staggered backward, clutching his side. Enzo instantly put a bullet between Marco’s eyes. The loan shark slumped forward, dead.

The foyer fell dead silent.

“Dad!” Leo shrieked, breaking away from me and running down the stairs.

I sprinted after him. Antonio was on his knees, his hand pressed against his ribs. Blood was seeping through his white shirt, turning it a brilliant, terrifying crimson.

“Let me see,” I ordered, sliding onto the bloody marble beside him. I ripped his shirt open. The bullet had entered his lower abdomen. It was a bad hit.

Antonio looked at me, his breathing shallow. He reached up with a bloody hand, gripping my wrist.

“Sophie,” he gasped, his eyes losing focus.

“Stay with me, Antonio. Enzo, help me get him to the clinic!”

Antonio shook his head, his grip on my wrist tightening with surprising strength. “No. Need to tell you… before…”

“Don't speak! Save your strength!”

“The hospital,” he choked out, coughing up a speck of blood. “Six years ago. When my wife died in childbirth. The nurse… the student nurse who held her hand. Who sang to her when she passed.”

I froze. My hands hovered over his bleeding wound.

Six years ago. My first clinical rotation. A beautiful Italian woman had hemorrhaged during labor. The doctors couldn't save her. I had stayed with her, singing softly so she wouldn't die in terror.