THE WAITRESS, THE MAFIA BOSS, AND THE NAPKIN THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

I drove the truck around to the back of the motel, parking it behind a rusted dumpster to hide it from the street.

Getting Lorenzo inside was the hardest physical thing I’d ever done. He was pure, dead muscle. I draped his good arm over my shoulder, practically dragging him through the sleet, while Leo clutched my other hand, wide awake now and completely silent.

I kicked the door of Room 12 shut and locked the deadbolt. The room smelled of stale cigarettes and cheap bleach. The yellow floral wallpaper was peeling at the corners.

I dropped Lorenzo onto the sagging mattress. He groaned, a low, agonizing sound, but his eyes didn’t open.

"Leo, go sit in the bathtub," I ordered, my voice sharper than I intended. I softened my tone. "Keep your head down, sweetie. Don't look out the window."

The little boy nodded bravely and scurried into the bathroom.

I ran to the sink, turning on the hot water and grabbing the flimsy white towels. My hands were covered in Lorenzo’s blood. I felt sick, but a strange, cold survival instinct had taken over.

I ran back to the bed and ripped Lorenzo’s ruined shirt open.

The bullet had passed straight through the meat of his shoulder. It was a messy, ugly hole, but it hadn’t hit an artery or shattered the bone. He was losing blood fast, but it was survivable. If I could stop the bleeding.

I pressed the hot, wet towels directly into the wound.

Lorenzo’s eyes snapped open. He roared, his body arching off the bed in pure agony. His massive hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with enough force to snap it.

"It's me!" I yelled, pushing down harder on the wound. "It's Evie! Stay still!"

His chest heaved, his dark eyes wild and dilated with pain. He stared up at me, his breathing ragged. Slowly, the fight drained out of him. His grip on my wrist softened, his thumb weakly brushing against the pulse point of my arm.

"You didn't run," he whispered, his voice thick with pain.

"I don't run from people who need help," I shot back, though tears were stinging my eyes. "Hold this."

I forced his good hand onto the towel to keep the pressure. I tore a strip from the clean bottom of the bedsheet and wrapped it tightly under his arm and over his shoulder, tying a brutal knot to bind the wound.

Lorenzo hissed through his teeth, but he didn't fight me. He just watched my face. The intensity in his dark eyes made my skin prickle. It was the way a drowning man looks at a life raft.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm terrified," I admitted, tying the knot tighter. "I'm a waitress, Lorenzo. Yesterday my biggest problem was my electric bill. Today I'm patching bullet holes in a mafia boss."

A weak, exhausted smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You're doing fine, Evie."

He closed his eyes, his breathing finally evening out.

I slumped back against the wall, sliding down to the dirty carpet, completely spent.

An hour passed. The bleeding stopped. Lorenzo managed to sit up, his face pale but his eyes sharp again. He drank a glass of tap water I brought him.

"We can't stay here," he said quietly. "If they have the police looking for my car, they'll check the motels."

"We need to get the ledger," I said, pulling the brass key from my pocket. "Once you have it, we can expose Celeste. We can end this."

Lorenzo nodded slowly. "The Greyhound station on Harrison."

We gathered Leo, wrapping him tightly in my coat. Lorenzo moved stiffly, his face tight with pain, but the lethal energy was back in his posture. He was a man going to war.

The Greyhound station was practically abandoned at 3:00 AM. A few homeless men slept on the plastic benches. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

We walked to the bank of rusted orange lockers in the back corridor. Lorenzo pointed.

Locker 404.

My hand shook as I inserted the brass key. It turned with a heavy click.

I pulled the metal door open. Inside was a thick, leather-bound book wrapped in plastic.

I pulled it out, my heart hammering. Fourteen years. This was the book my father died for. This was the proof that he was a good man.

Lorenzo took it from my hands. He tore the plastic open and flipped through the yellowed pages. Columns of names, dates, and massive dollar amounts.

"It's all here," Lorenzo whispered, his eyes scanning the ink. "The shell companies. The bribes. Richard Vane bled us dry."

I looked over his shoulder. I didn't understand the numbers, but I recognized a column of names on the far right page. It was a list of payroll payouts for "Information."

My blood ran cold.

One name was circled in red ink by my father.

Gilbert Thorne. Floor Manager. The Obsidian.

"Oh my god," I breathed, stumbling back a step.

Lorenzo looked up, his eyes narrowing. "What is it?"

"Gilbert," I whispered, panic rising in my throat. "My manager. He was on their payroll. He was the inside man."

I grabbed my head, my mind racing back to the restaurant. Gilbert had caught me with the napkin. He saw me put it on the table. He knew I warned Lorenzo.

"Evie," Lorenzo said sharply.

I looked down. Leo was tugging on my pant leg.

"I'm cold, Evie," the little boy whispered.

I dropped to my knees, wrapping my arms around him. "I know, baby. I know. Let me fix your coat."

I pulled the collar of my oversized coat tighter around his neck. But as I did, something hard pressed against my palm from inside the lining.

I stopped.

I felt the fabric again. There was a small, rigid square sewn deep into the hem of the coat.

I ripped the seam open with my fingernails.

A tiny black plastic disk fell into my palm. A single red light blinked slowly in the center.

A GPS tracker.