Chapter 2 - The Secret Midnight Deliveries, the Syndicate’s Hidden Threat, and the Underworld Boss’s Unyielding Shadow Over Trattoria RossiThe rear alleyway behind Trattoria Rossi was cold, damp, and smelled perpetually of rotting cabbage from the neighboring produce bins.
Nara pulled her worn wool coat tightly around her shoulders as she pushed open the heavy metal service door at precisely 11:05 p.m. She expected an empty alley, the usual scurrying rats, or perhaps a frustrated delivery driver.
Instead, a sleek, idling black town car sat directly against the curb, its tinted windows absorbing the sodium glow of the streetlamp.
As Nara stepped onto the pavement, the rear passenger door clicked open. A pair of impeccably tailored trousers and dark leather shoes emerged. It wasn't Dominic, but Leo, the scarred guard who had brought the burn cream hours earlier.
“Get in, Miss Campbell,” Leo said, his voice flat, professional, and entirely brooking zero argument.
Nara froze, her hand gripping the strap of her canvas purse. “I walk home. It’s three blocks.”
“Mr. Russo requested that I ensure you arrive at your apartment without incident,” Leo replied, gesturing toward the interior of the car. “Please. It is midnight, and the city is not kind to waitresses carrying five hundred dollars in cash in their coat pockets.”
Nara hesitated. Every survival instinct she possessed screamed at her to turn around, duck back inside the restaurant, and hide in the walk-in freezer. Yet, looking at Leo’s impassive expression, she realized running from the Russo organization was a mathematical impossibility.
She climbed into the back seat. The door shut with a heavy, satisfying thud that sealed out the damp night air.
To her surprise, Dominic Russo sat on the opposite side of the leather interior. He had changed into a fresh charcoal suit—identical to the one ruined by the minestrone, save for the lack of red broth—and was reviewing a stack of dense, handwritten financial manifests by the dim illumination of a reading light.
He didn't look up immediately.
“Did you apply the burn cream?” Dominic asked, his deep baritone cutting through the quiet hum of the engine as the car pulled away from the curb.
Nara instinctively tucked her right hand into her coat pocket, pressing her blistered fingertips against her palm. “Yes. Thank you.”
Dominic finally closed the manifests and turned his dark, unreadable eyes toward her. “You lied about your shift ending at midnight.”
“My shift ended at eleven,” Nara admitted, a defiant edge creeping into her tone despite her exhaustion. “I lied because I didn't want a mob boss waiting for me with an escort service. I am capable of walking three blocks.”
A faint shadow of amusement touched the corners of Dominic’s mouth. “A mob boss. You are remarkably comfortable labeling me, Miss Campbell.”
“You syndicate men are not exactly subtle,” she retorted, gesturing vaguely toward the front seat where two heavily armed guards sat in absolute silence. “Subtle people do not ride in bulletproof town cars with men carrying ordnance under their armpits.”
Dominic studied her for a long moment, noting the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, and the quiet, desperate exhaustion that radiated from her frame. He didn't take offense at her defiance; if anything, the lack of servility seemed to interest him more than her fear ever could.
“Tomorrow,” Dominic said quietly, “you will not work the double shift.”
Nara bristled. “Excuse me? You don't manage my schedule. Paul manages my schedule, and Paul needs me to cover tables because half the waitstaff quit last month after the warehouse dispute on 10th Avenue.”
“A warehouse dispute involving my organization,” Dominic noted smoothly. “Which resulted in a shortage of labor across the district. Therefore, it is my responsibility to correct it.”
“I don't need your charity, Mr. Russo,” Nara snapped, her voice rising. “I don't need you buying my shifts, I don't need you sending town cars to my alley, and I certainly don't need you monitoring my life like I’m some kind of project!”
“Charity?” Dominic’s expression hardened instantly, his dark eyes sharpening into dangerous points. “You think I am engaging in charity? Miss Campbell, an independent faction within the syndicate—led by a captain named Sal Marco—believes I showed weakness by letting you walk out of my restaurant after you assaulted me.”
Nara’s breath hitched. “What?”
“Sal believes that if a waitress can throw soup on the boss without paying for it in blood, then anyone can challenge my authority,” Dominic continued, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “Which means Sal’s men have been watching your apartment building since three o’clock this afternoon.”
The anger drained out of Nara, replaced by a sudden, sickening wave of cold terror. “Watching... watching my apartment?”
“They are looking for a weakness,” Dominic said, leaning forward slightly. “And right now, the only person in this city who dared to look me in the eye without begging is you. To them, you are my target—or my soft spot.”
The town car slowed to a smooth halt outside a rundown, three-story brick walk-up with peeling paint and a flickering porch light.
Through the rain-streaked windows, Nara saw two men in dark hoodies leaning against a rusted lamppost directly across the street from her front door, smoking cigarettes and watching her building with predatory intent.
Sal’s men.
Nara gripped the door handle. “If I go inside... they’ll see me.”
“You are not going inside alone,” Dominic stated.
May you like
Before Nara could argue, Dominic pressed a button on his console. The town car’s doors unlocked. Two guards stepped out from the front seats, moving with terrifying speed and precision across the street, while Dominic turned to face her, his massive frame blocking her exit.
“You will stay at my estate for the next forty-eight hours, Nara,” Dominic ordered, using her first name for the very first time. It sounded like a decree carved in stone. “Until I dismantle Sal Marco’s cell, you do not exist in this city. Am I understood?”
