Shy Waitress Greeted Mafia Boss’s Sicilian Dad—Her Sicilian Dialect Greeting Had Every Guest Frozen

Acting Like a Moretti

Lorenzo slammed on the brakes, swerving the heavy car off the highway and onto a private wooded exit ramp. The sudden motion threw her against the seat belt.

He brought the car to a stop at a massive iron gate. He turned to her, his dark eyes locking onto hers.

The intensity of his gaze made her breath hitch.

“Russo was a name your grandmother used to hide,” Lorenzo said.

He leaned in close. He smelled of leather and gunpowder.

“Moretti is a name that commands armies. If you want to survive the week, you better start acting like a Moretti. That means you don’t cower, you don’t beg, and you definitely don’t ask to go back to a studio apartment in Queens when there is a bounty on your head.”

The gate groaned open. Lorenzo hit the gas and they drove up a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks.

At the top of the hill stood the estate, a sprawling stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a home. Floodlights washed over the grounds, revealing armed guards patrolling the perimeter with German Shepherds.

“Welcome home,” Lorenzo muttered.

“Tuttled home, Princess.”

They pulled up to the front entrance. Guards swarmed the vehicle, opening the doors.

Lorenzo got out first, scanning the darkness before offering a hand to Salvatore. Then he came to Louisa’s side.

He didn’t open the door for her. He just stood there waiting.

Louisa opened her own door and stepped out. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.

“I can open my own door.”

Lorenzo’s lips quirked up in the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Good. Keep that fire. You’re going to need it.”

The Fortress and the Traitor

Inside the mansion was a museum of wealth: marble floors, oil paintings that belonged in the Louvre, and a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. But it felt cold, empty.

“Vinnie!” Lorenzo barked at the head of security, the man who had laughed at the restaurant earlier.

“Lockdown mode, level five. No one in or out without my direct authorization. If a squirrel crosses the lawn, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, boss,” Vinnie said.

His eyes darted briefly to Louisa. There was something in his look, a curiosity mixed with something darker, that made Louisa shiver.

“Take her to the east wing,” Lorenzo ordered a maid who had appeared from the shadows.

“Get her clothes, get her food, and burn that waitress uniform.”

“Wait,” Louisa said.

She reached out to grab Lorenzo’s sleeve. He stopped, looking down at her hand on his suit jacket, his muscles tensed under the fabric.

“What happens now?” she asked.

Her voice was small. Lorenzo looked at her, his expression unreadable.

He reached out, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of dirt. The touch was startlingly gentle for a man who had just outrun a hit squad.

“Now,” Lorenzo said softly.

“We find out who betrayed us, and then I paint the city red with their blood.”

He pulled away, turned on his heel, and marched toward his father’s study, leaving Louisa standing alone in the grand foyer feeling smaller than she ever had in her life.

The Key to the Empire

The room they gave her was bigger than her entire apartment. It had a four-poster bed draped in silk, a balcony overlooking the dark forest, and a bathroom filled with products that cost more than her monthly salary.

Louisa stood under the hot shower for 20 minutes, trying to scrub the smell of fear off her skin. She watched the water swirl down the drain, wishing her problems could disappear as easily.

When she stepped out, wrapped in a plush white robe, there were clothes laid out on the bed—not a uniform, but a soft cashmere sweater in charcoal gray and black fitted trousers. They were simple, elegant, and clearly expensive.

She dressed, feeling like an impostor in her own body. She walked to the mirror.

The shy girl from Veno and Verita was gone. In her place was a woman with dark circles under her eyes but a set to her jaw that looked painfully like the old man’s downstairs.

Blood does not become water.

She left the room. The hallway was quiet.

She needed answers. She needed to know why her dialect—just words her Nona used to sing to her—had caused such chaos.

She wandered down the grand staircase, following the sound of voices. She reached the heavy oak doors of the study; they were slightly ajar.

“It’s impossible, Father,” Lorenzo’s voice was arguing.

“The encryption is biometric, or it requires a key. A dialect? It sounds like a myth.”

“It is not a myth,” Salvatore’s voice was weary.

“The Cosa Nostra of the 1970s was different. We didn’t use computers; we used blood and tradition. The accounts in Zurich, the ones holding the deeds to the port of Palermo… they were sealed by my father using the voice of the valley.”

“It’s a voice recognition lock?” Lorenzo asked.

“Analog, ancient,” Salvatore replied.

“It responds only to the specific intonation of the Corleone dialect spoken by a member of the bloodline. I lost the access when Isabella left.”

Salvatore continued.

“I never taught you the dialect because it was too dangerous, and my own accent… it has faded. I tried to access the accounts 10 years ago. It rejected me.”

“So she is the key,” Lorenzo said.

His voice was calculating.

“She walks into the bank, speaks the words, and unlocks ten billion dollars in assets.”

“And the proof of the Russian alliance,” Salvatore added.

“That is what they really want. The documents inside that vault will prove the Genovese family sold out to the Russian Bratva. If we get that proof, the commission will sanction the destruction of the Genovese. We win the war.”

Louisa leaned against the doorframe, her heart pounding. She wasn’t just a granddaughter; she was a walking key to a billion-dollar fortune and a war-ending weapon.

“She’s a liability,” Lorenzo said.

“If the Russians know what she is, they won’t kill her. They’ll take her. They’ll torture her until she speaks the words for them.”

“Then you must ensure they never get the chance,” Salvatore said sternly.

“You will be her shadow, Lorenzo. You will sleep outside her door if you have to.”

“I don’t babysit,” Lorenzo growled.

“No, you protect what is ours.”