The waitress passed a note to the mafia boss — “Your fiancée has set a trap. Leave now.”
She stood barefoot on the shattered glass and cold marble.
“Yes,”
she said fiercely.
Lorenzo looked at her with something akin to awe.
“God, you are magnificent.”
He grabbed her hand.
“We need to get to the kitchen, the service elevator.”
They moved in a blur of violence. Lorenzo moved like a dancer, shielding her with his body.
Every time a shadow emerged from the smoke, Lorenzo fired; he was lethally precise. They reached the kitchen doors, and Lorenzo kicked them open.
Inside, it was quiet—too quiet. Standing in the center of the stainless steel kitchen was Dante Russo.
He was holding a gun to the head of a chef. Flanking him were four heavily armed mercenaries.
“End of the line, Enzo,”
Dante sneered.
“You think I didn’t know about the service exit? I invented the game.”
Lorenzo stopped. He held his gun up, but he was outnumbered five to one.
He stepped in front of Barber, pushing her behind his back.
“Let the girl go, Dante,”
Lorenzo said evenly.
“This is between us.”
“No.”
Dante laughed.
“She’s the reason you’re alive. She’s the lucky charm. I think I’ll take her. Maybe she can slip notes for me.”
He raised his gun, aiming at Lorenzo’s chest.
“Say goodbye to your kingdom, Moretti.”
The Waitress Strikes Back
Barber’s hand brushed against the counter. Her fingers found something hard and cold—a cast iron skillet.
Dante was focused entirely on Lorenzo, and the mercenaries were watching Lorenzo. No one was watching the harmless waitress.
Barber didn’t think. She remembered the rage she felt when her father died, and she remembered Toby’s face when the glass shattered.
She lunged with a scream that was pure primal fury. She swung the heavy iron skillet with both hands.
Clang! It connected with the side of the nearest mercenary’s head with a sickening crunch.
He dropped like a stone, his gun skittering across the floor. The distraction was instantaneous as Dante flinched, turning toward the noise.
That split second was all Lorenzo needed.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Four shots, four bodies. Lorenzo moved so fast he was a blur.
He put a bullet in each mercenary before they could retarget. Dante fired wildly, missing Lorenzo and hitting the spice rack.
Lorenzo closed the distance. He didn’t shoot Dante; he tackled him.
The two Dons crashed into the prep station, scattering flour and knives everywhere. It was a brutal, ugly fistfight.
Dante was strong, but Lorenzo was fighting with the rage of a man protecting his mate. Lorenzo pinned Dante to the floor and wrapped his hands around Dante’s throat.
“You threatened her!”
Lorenzo roared, slamming Dante’s head into the tiles.
“You looked at her!”
“Enzo, stop!”
Barber screamed. She grabbed Lorenzo’s arm.
“Stop! The police are coming! You can’t kill him here!”
Lorenzo froze. His chest was heaving, and his knuckles were white.
He looked down at Dante, who was gasping for air, beaten and broken. Then he looked at Barber.
Her eyes were wide and pleading. She was barefoot, covered in flour and blood, holding a frying pan.
Lorenzo let go. He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket though it was torn.
He looked at Dante.
“You live because she asked. Remember that every breath you take is a gift from the woman you tried to kill.”
Marcus and the security team burst through the back doors.
“Boss, the extraction team is here.”
“Take the trash out,”
Lorenzo gestured to Dante.
“Hand him over to the feds. Anonymous tip. Let him rot in a cell.”
Lorenzo turned to Barber. He walked over to her and didn’t say a word; he just scooped her up into his arms, bridal style.
“You can put me down,”
Barber protested weakly.
“I can walk.”
“You are barefoot in a war zone,”
Lorenzo said, walking toward the exit.
“And you just took out a hitman with a frying pan. I am never letting you walk again if I can help it.”
The Proposal
He carried her out into the cool night air, past the sirens and the flashing lights. He placed her in the back of the waiting limousine and sat beside her, the adrenaline fading to a heavy silence.
“You saved me again,”
Lorenzo said softly.
“We’re even,”
Barber whispered.
“No.”
Lorenzo shook his head. He took her hand—the one with the ring—lifted it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles, smearing a bit of blood on her skin.
“I owe you everything, Barber Vance, and I always pay my debts.”
He leaned in. This time, there was no gunfire to interrupt them.
He kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was hungry, desperate, and possessive.
It tasted of survival. When they pulled apart, Lorenzo rested his forehead against hers.
“Marry me,”
he whispered.
“We’re already fake-engaged,”
she breathed, her heart racing.
“No,”
Lorenzo said, his thumb stroking her cheek.
“For real. Be my queen. Rule this city with me. I can’t do it without you. You are the only person in the world who isn’t afraid of the fire.”
Barber looked at him. She thought of her old life—the spilled drinks, the unpaid bills, and the constant fear.
Then she looked at the man who would burn the world down to keep a drop of rain off her head.
“Okay,”
she whispered.
“Okay.”
Lorenzo smiled—the first real, genuine smile she had ever seen on him.
“Okay. But I have one condition.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“No more galas.”
She laughed, a tear sliding down her cheek.
“I prefer takeout.”
Lorenzo laughed—a rich, deep sound.
“Deal.”
