THE WAITRESS AND THE MAFIA’S TRAP

I stared at the folded photograph Lorenzo had just pressed into my palm.

My fingers trembled as I smoothed out the glossy paper. The lighting in the image was harsh, taken outside a brick warehouse. My father stood on the left, looking older, tired, and clutching a newspaper from three days ago.

But it was the man standing beside him that made the breath lodge in my throat.

He wore a bespoke charcoal suit. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and he was looking directly into the camera with a calm, chilling authority.

It was Richard Vane. Celeste’s father.

The same man who, just moments ago, had performed a brilliant theatrical display of outrage at our dinner table. He had publicly suspended his financial commitment to the Moretti family, making it look as though he was disgusted by his daughter’s behavior.

But it wasn't disgust. It was a signal. He had withdrawn his money so it wouldn't be tied up when Lorenzo was assassinated tonight.

"Evelyn," Lorenzo’s voice was a low, urgent command. "Look at me."

I tore my eyes away from the photo. The security chief, a massive man named Marcus, still had his thick fingers wrapped like a vise around my bicep. The second lock on the wine-cellar staircase had just clicked shut, trapping Lorenzo’s mother, sisters, and the rest of his family in the dark below.

Gunfire erupted again from the north entrance, shattering the expensive crystal chandeliers. Celeste screamed, dropping to the marble floor in a perfectly executed performance of a terrified bride.

"I said, let her go, Marcus," Lorenzo repeated, his dark eyes locking onto his own security chief.

Marcus didn't flinch. He drew a heavy, silenced pistol from his jacket and aimed it squarely at Lorenzo’s chest.

"Sorry, Boss," Marcus sneered. "Vane pays better. And he promised me your territory on the South Side."

"A dead man can't pay you," Lorenzo said. His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any panic.

Before Marcus could process the words, Lorenzo moved. He didn't reach for a gun. With lightning speed, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, grabbing a silver steak knife from the abandoned dinner table. In one fluid, brutal motion, he drove the blade through the back of Marcus’s gun hand, pinning it to the heavy oak wood of the table.

Marcus roared in agony, his fingers instantly opening. The gun clattered to the floor.

Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He delivered a crushing blow to Marcus’s jaw, sending the massive man collapsing onto the marble tiles, unconscious.

I stood frozen, my tray clattering to the ground, surrounded by broken glass and chaos.

"Evelyn, move!" Lorenzo grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the heavy oak door of the wine cellar.

He knelt beside the unconscious Marcus, rummaging frantically through the man's pockets until he pulled out a heavy brass key ring.

More gunshots echoed from the dining room entrance. The fake caterers were breaching the main floor.

Lorenzo jammed a key into the cellar lock, twisted it, and threw the door open. He pushed me inside into the cool, damp darkness and slammed the door shut behind us, locking it from the inside just as bullets tore through the wood where we had been standing.

We were in the stairwell, descending rapidly into the massive, cavernous wine cellar.

"Your family," I gasped, struggling to keep up with his long strides. "They came down here."

"I know," Lorenzo said, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket.

The beam of light cut through the gloom. As we reached the bottom of the stone stairs, my heart dropped into my stomach.

The twenty guests who had fled down here—including Lorenzo’s elderly mother and two young sisters—were slumped against the wine racks and scattered across the stone floor.

"Oh my god," I breathed, rushing forward.

I knelt beside his mother. She was breathing, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, but she was completely unresponsive.

"They’re breathing," Lorenzo said, checking his sister's pulse nearby. "They've been gassed. The ventilation system down here must have been rigged with a heavy sedative. Marcus trapped them in it."

"Why didn't it affect us?" I asked, looking around the massive, stone-arched room.

"Because the gas has already settled," Lorenzo said, shining his light toward the ceiling vents, which were now sealed shut. "They want them alive as hostages. They want leverage over my captains."

I looked down at the stone floor. Something caught the beam of Lorenzo’s flashlight, glimmering near the edge of a massive oak wine barrel.

I walked over and picked it up.

It was a heavy, sterling silver Zippo lighter. Engraved on the side was a highly detailed eagle with its wings spread.

I held it up. "Lorenzo. Did Marcus drop this?"

Lorenzo turned, the flashlight beam hitting the silver lighter in my hand. He froze. The color drained completely from his olive skin.

"No," Lorenzo whispered, his voice laced with a sudden, profound betrayal. "Marcus doesn't smoke."

"Then whose is it?" I asked, my hand trembling as I held the heavy silver object.

Before Lorenzo could answer, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping echoed from the deepest shadows of the wine cellar.

"You always were too observant, Lorenzo," a raspy, familiar voice called out. "It was the one thing I could never train out of you."

A figure stepped out from behind a row of vintage Bordeaux.

It was an older man, leaning slightly on a silver-tipped cane, holding a revolver in his free hand. He was one of the guests who had been sitting at our table, laughing and drinking my wine just thirty minutes ago.

"Uncle Carmine," Lorenzo said, his voice hard as stone.