The Waitress, the Mafia Boss, and the Daughter Who Came Back from the Dead

The footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor, echoing violently in the pitch-black restaurant.

Someone was running. Fast. Desperate.

Lorenzo turned, his eyes straining against the darkness. The emergency lights from the street cast long, terrifying shadows across the shattered dining room. Guests were still screaming, cowering beneath tables, but Lorenzo didn’t care about them. His entire focus narrowed onto the silhouette sprinting toward the grand mahogany staircase.

It was Julian.

His second-in-command. The man who had stood by his side at his wife’s funeral. The man who had personally sworn that Lorenzo’s daughter, Mia, had died in the same car crash.

Julian hit the first step, his hand gripping the railing.

“Julian!” Lorenzo roared.

The sound of his own voice sent a sudden, agonizing spike of pain through his chest. The poison. He had forgotten about the poison. A wave of nausea hit him so hard he stumbled, his hand catching the edge of the marble bar. His veins felt like they were filling with crushed glass.

Three minutes.

He didn’t have time to die. Not now. Not when his daughter was upstairs.

Lorenzo pushed off the bar, ignoring the burning in his lungs, and sprinted after his lieutenant. Gunfire still popped sporadically near the kitchen, but Lorenzo didn’t draw his weapon. He needed Julian alive. He needed answers.

He took the stairs two at a time. The physical exertion accelerated the poison. Sweat poured down Lorenzo’s face. His vision blurred at the edges, turning the world into a smeared painting of dark shapes.

“Dad?”

The little girl’s voice echoed again from the top of the landing.

Lorenzo’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Mia! I’m coming!”

He reached the top of the stairs, bursting into the second-floor private lounge. The room was illuminated only by the pale moonlight spilling through the skylight.

Julian was standing in the center of the room.

But there was no little girl.

The room was completely empty.

Julian turned around slowly. He wasn’t holding a weapon. Instead, he was holding a small, silver object. It caught the moonlight, gleaming coldly in the shadows.

Lorenzo stopped, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He recognized the object instantly.

It was a silver baby rattle.

The exact rattle Lorenzo had bought for Mia on her first birthday. The one that was supposed to be buried in her casket.

“Where is she, Julian?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice thick with pain and rage. He pulled his firearm, leveling it at the man he had called a brother. “Where is my daughter?”

Julian smiled. It was a sad, broken smile. “She’s not here, Boss. She never was.”

He pointed to a small, black wireless speaker resting on the coffee table. The green light on top of it blinked steadily.

“A recording,” Julian said softly. “Just like the one your father played for you three years ago. It was a trap, Lorenzo. Just to get you away from your security detail downstairs.”

The realization hit Lorenzo like a physical blow. He had been lured away. Isolated. And his body was shutting down. The gun in his hand trembled as the poison began to paralyze his muscles.

“Why?” Lorenzo choked out, falling to one knee. “You watched me mourn her. You watched me bury an empty box!”

“Because you were getting weak, Lorenzo,” Julian spat, his guilt suddenly twisting into anger. “You wanted to take the family business legitimate. You wanted to walk away from the empire your father built. I couldn’t let you destroy everything we worked for.”

“Who has her?” Lorenzo gasped, clutching his chest.

Before Julian could answer, a single, suppressed gunshot hissed through the dark room.

Julian’s eyes went wide. A dark red bloom spread across the center of his white shirt. He dropped the silver rattle. It hit the floor with a hollow, mocking clatter. Julian collapsed backward, dead before he hit the carpet.

Lorenzo tried to stand, but his legs failed him. The poison had reached his heart. The edges of his vision went completely black. He fell onto his side, staring at the silver rattle inches from his face.

He was going to die right here. Without ever finding her.

Then, soft footsteps approached.

A pair of practical, black non-slip shoes stepped into his field of vision.

The waitress.

She knelt beside him, her dark ponytail falling over her shoulder. Her face was pale, but her hands were completely steady. She reached into the pocket of her black apron and pulled out a small, glass vial filled with a thick, charcoal-colored liquid.

“I told you not to go upstairs,” she whispered.

Lorenzo couldn’t speak. He could only stare at her.