The Exhausted Waitress Could Barely Stand—Then the Mafia Boss Changed Her Life

By midnight, Luca’s security team had retrieved Emma and Mrs. Chen from my cramped basement apartment.

Mrs. Chen—a sweet, seventy-year-old widow who lived across the hall and watched Emma while I worked nights—was given a comfortable guest suite on the second floor, along with a stack of hundred-dollar bills that left her speechless.

I sat on the edge of a king-sized bed in a sprawling master bedroom overlooking Lake Washington.

Emma was asleep beside me, wrapped in a cloud-soft duvet. Dr. Marchetti’s nebulizer treatment had worked miracles; her breathing was clear, slow, and deep, the harsh rattling in her tiny chest completely gone. A bottle of fresh pink antibiotic medicine sat on the nightstand beside a glass of fresh juice.

The door opened with a soft click.

Luca stepped inside, minus his suit jacket. He wore a soft black cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms marked by old scars.

He moved silently across the thick Persian rug, looking down at the sleeping child.

"She looks like you," Luca murmured softly, his features softening as he watched Emma’s dark eyelashes resting against her flushed cheeks.

"She has her father's eyes," I said bitterly. "Unfortunately."

Luca sat on the leather armchair near the bed, resting his forearms on his knees. "Eye color means nothing, Ava. She has your spirit. She survived eighteen months in a freezing apartment because you bled yourself dry to keep her warm."

I looked at him, studying the sharp contours of his face in the warm lamp light.

"Why are you doing this, Luca?" I asked directly. "You're a mafia boss. You don't rescue waitresses and three-year-olds out of the goodness of your heart."

A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "You have a low opinion of my character."

"I have an accurate opinion of your reputation," I replied. "The news says you control the docks. The police say you're dangerous. People like you don't fight the Chicago mob for free."

Luca went quiet for a moment. He looked down at his hands, turning his silver signet ring around his finger.

"Alberto Moretti killed my father six years ago," Luca said, his voice quiet, stripped of all posturing. "He tried to take Seattle's ports. We drove him back to Chicago, but the war cost me my family. I promised myself that if Moretti ever set foot in my city again, I would cut off his hands."

He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse jump.

"Moretti thinks he can use a coward like Jake Martinez to steal forty million dollars from under my nose in my own territory," Luca said. "He thinks I am weak because I don't target civilians. Protecting you and Emma isn't just about saving a child, Ava. It is about reminding Chicago who rules Seattle."

I swallowed hard. "So we're weapons in your war?"

"No," Luca said firmly, standing up and stepping toward the bed. "You are protected citizens under my banner. As long as you are inside this house, under my name, not a single man from Chicago—or anywhere else—will lay a finger on either of you. You have my word on the Castellano name."