Everyone Forgot Her Birthday Until Philadelphia’s Most Feared Mafia Boss Walked Into the Library Carrying the One Thing She Thought Was Gone Forever

Grace froze on the snow-dusted pavement, her hand clutching her handbag so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Gianni stepped closer, his heavy leather boots crunching against the thin layer of ice on the sidewalk. He wasn't wearing his raincoat tonight; he wore a dark leather jacket, his pale face illuminated by the faint glow of the distant corner lamp. The scar across his cheek looked jagged and dark against his white skin.

He tossed the turquoise wooden bookend lightly in his palm, catching it with a soft thud.

“Lucia’s art project,” Gianni rasped, his voice cutting through the cold wind like a rusted blade. “Matteo dropped it in his car three weeks ago after he left your little book house. I found it when we swept his garage.”

Grace forced her lungs to take in air. She kept her posture upright, remembering Matteo’s command from weeks ago, trying to hide the cold panic rising in her throat.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice surprisingly firm in the quiet street.

“I want to talk about Matteo,” Gianni said, stopping five feet from her. He looked up at her brownstone apartment building, then back down at her face. “You gave him quite a speech three weeks ago, Miss Holloway. My men listened to the whole thing from the street. You told him he was dangerous. You told him to get out.”

“It’s none of your business,” Grace said.

“Oh, but it is my business,” Gianni chuckled dryly, a sound devoid of any humor. “You see, for seven weeks, Matteo was distracted. He was spending his evenings sitting in a library instead of checking on the Southwark docks. He was getting soft. Franco thought we could push him out of the territory easily.”

Gianni took one step closer, his eyes narrowing into cold, malicious slits.

“But then you kicked him out,” Gianni continued softly. “And do you know what happened, Miss Holloway? Matteo came back to Southwark. And he wasn't soft anymore. He was furious. In three weeks, he burned two of our warehouses, took our distribution contracts, and put Franco’s brother in the hospital.”

Grace felt her heart drop into her stomach. He went back to the war.

“He’s destroying us,” Gianni whispered, a sliver of genuine fear creeping through his arrogant tone. “Because he has nothing else to do with his time now. He doesn't go to the library. He doesn't read books. He just works.”

Gianni held up the turquoise bookend, holding it out toward her.

“So now,” Gianni said, “Franco wants to send him a message. A message that will make him stop. A message that will make him give back the piers.”

Grace looked at the wooden block, then at the shadow of a second man stepping out from behind the dark sedan parked down the street.

“He doesn't care about me,” Grace lied, her voice rising, using her fear as her only remaining shield. “I told him I was afraid of him! He left! He hasn't come back!”

“Matteo DeLuca doesn't forget things,” Gianni said softly. “And he certainly didn't forget you.”

The second man stepped onto the sidewalk behind Grace, blocking her path back toward Washington Avenue.

Grace looked at her apartment front door—twenty feet away, locked, unreachable. She looked at the two men closing in on her in the quiet, snowy street.

She didn't scream. She knew that screaming on a quiet residential street in South Philly during a snowstorm would only bring help too late.

Instead, she reached into her coat pocket, her fingers closing around the small, heavy silver object she had carried with her every single day since her birthday.

Her grandfather’s brass-plated pocket magnifying glass—heavy, solid, with a thick bevel edge.

As the second man reached out to grab her arm, Grace turned with all the speed and force she possessed, driving the heavy metal rim of the magnifying glass directly into the side of his jaw.

The sharp, metallic crack echoed down the quiet street. The man let out a choked yell, staggering backward onto the icy curb, clutching his bleeding mouth.

“Bitch!” Gianni hissed, lunging forward, his gloved hand reaching for her throat.

Grace spun toward her building steps, her heels slipping on the ice—

A sudden, blinding flare of high-beam headlights shattered the darkness of the street.

The roar of a heavy engine echoed off the brick brownstones as a massive black SUV slammed over the curb, tearing through the snow, stopping sideways across the street just three feet from Gianni’s sedan.