Shy Waitress Greeted Mafia Boss’s Sicilian Dad—Her Sicilian Dialect Greeting Had Every Guest Frozen
A Target on Her Back
Louisa felt lightheaded. The mafia Don was her grandfather.
This was insane. This was a soap opera.
This couldn’t be her life.
“I, I think there has been a mistake,” Louisa stammered.
She stood up.
“I just want to go home. Please, I won’t tell anyone what happened here.”
Lorenzo stepped in her path, blocking her exit.
“You can’t go home.”
“Why not?” Louisa demanded.
She found a spark of courage.
“Because,” Lorenzo said.
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
“If my father recognized that dialect, others will too. If you really are Isabella’s bloodline, you are a walking target. The Genovese family is still out there. If they find out Salvatore Moretti has a secret heir, a vulnerability, they will use you to get to him, or they will kill you just to finish the job they started 50 years ago.”
“He is right,” Salvatore said.
He stood up with effort.
“You cannot return to your apartment. Not tonight. Not ever.”
“You’re kidnapping me,” Louisa gasped.
“We are protecting you,” Lorenzo corrected.
He reached out and took her arm. His grip was firm, electric.
“You belong to the family now, Louisa, whether you want to or not.”
Under Fire
Crash! The front window of the restaurant shattered as a bullet tore through the glass, slamming into the wall inches from Salvatore’s head.
“Get down!” Lorenzo screamed.
He tackled Louisa to the floor. More shots erupted, turning the elegant dining room into a war zone.
Glass flew everywhere. Lorenzo covered Louisa’s body with his own, shielding her from the debris.
She could feel his heart hammering against her back, steady and furious.
“They found us!” Salvatore shouted.
He overturned the heavy oak table to use as a barricade. He pulled a silver pistol from his jacket with surprising speed.
Lorenzo pulled his own weapon, a sleek black handgun. He looked down at Louisa, his face inches from hers.
“Stay down. Do not move.”
“Who is it?” Louisa screamed over the noise of gunfire.
“I don’t know,” Lorenzo growled.
His eyes scanned the shattered windows.
“But whoever they are, they just made the last mistake of their lives.”
He looked at his father.
“Cover me. I’m getting her to the back exit.”
“Go!” Salvatore yelled.
He fired two shots toward the street. Lorenzo grabbed Louisa’s hand.
“Run!”
They sprinted toward the kitchen, bullets nipping at their heels. Louisa Russo’s life as a shy waitress was over.
She was running straight into the fire, hand in hand with the most dangerous man in the city. And the terrifying part wasn’t the gunfire; it was the fact that she didn’t want to let go of his hand.
The High-Speed Escape
The black armored SUV tore through the streets of Manhattan, running three red lights in a row. Lorenzo drove like a man possessed, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel.
In the back seat, Don Salvatore was on the phone, barking orders in a stream of rapid-fire Italian that was too fast for Louisa to catch. Louisa sat in the passenger seat, her hands trembling in her lap.
She kept looking in the side mirror, expecting to see headlights chasing them, expecting to see muzzle flashes.
“Stop shaking,” Lorenzo said.
He didn’t look at her, his eyes scanning the road ahead with predatory focus.
“It annoys me.”
“I was almost shot!” Louisa snapped back.
The adrenaline was overriding her fear of him.
“Excuse me if I’m not used to bullet holes in my dinner.”
Lorenzo glanced at her, a flicker of surprise raising his eyebrow. Most people cowered before him.
He wasn’t used to sass, especially not from a waitress who looked like a strong gust of wind could knock her over.
“You’re safe now,” he said.
His voice dropped an octave.
“No one touches you while I am breathing.”
“Why?” Louisa asked.
She turned to face him. The dashboard lights cast shadows across his sharp jawline.
“Because I’m his granddaughter?”
“Because you are an asset,” Lorenzo corrected coldly.
“And because the Don said so.”
From the back seat, Salvatore ended his call.
“It was a hit squad. Mercenaries, not locals. Someone paid a lot of money to disrupt my dinner.”
He leaned forward, wincing as he shifted his bad leg.
“Lorenzo, take us to the estate. The penthouse isn’t safe.”
“Already on the way,” Lorenzo said.
Heir to History
Louisa looked back at the old man.
“Sir… Don Moretti… I need to understand. If, if you are my grandfather…”
She hesitated, glancing at Lorenzo.
“Does that make him my uncle?”
The silence in the car was heavy. Lorenzo let out a short, sharp laugh that lacked any humor.
“Do I look like your uncle, Cara?” Lorenzo asked.
He shifted gears aggressively as they hit the highway.
“Lorenzo is not of my blood,” Salvatore explained.
His voice was soft.
“Though he is my son in every way that matters. I found him on the streets of Naples when he was ten years old. He was fighting three boys for a piece of bread. He won.”
Salvatore looked at Lorenzo with pride.
“I took him in. I raised him. He is the heir to my empire. But you, Louisa, you are the heir to my history.”
Louisa felt a strange knot loosen in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, but knowing she wasn’t related to the man sitting next to her made the electricity she felt when he touched her arm earlier less complicated and more dangerous.
“So,” Lorenzo said.
His voice was tight.
“The sword and the blood. I am the weapon and you are the legacy. A perfect little fairy tale.”
There was bitterness in his tone. Louisa realized suddenly that her existence threatened him.
He had spent his life earning his place. She had just walked in and claimed a piece of it by accident.
“I don’t want anything,” Louisa whispered.
“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your empire. I just want to go back to my apartment and feed my cat.”
“Your cat will be retrieved,” Lorenzo said dismissively.
“Your apartment is compromised. If they know who you are, they know where you live. You are a ghost now, Louisa. The waitress Louisa is dead. You are Louisa Moretti now.”
“Russo,” she corrected stubbornly.
“My name is Louisa Russo.”
