No one at Bellamy’s knew why I disappeared every Wednesday night after closing. They called me stuck-up, cold, and too good for the rest of them, then sent me to serve Salvatore Marquetti so I could embarrass myself in front of the most feared deaf mafia boss in Chicago

The following Wednesday, the rain was relentless, drumming against the glass of Bellamy’s like a thousand tiny fingers.

The restaurant was quiet, the bad weather keeping the usual dinner crowd at bay. I spent most of my shift polishing silverware in the back, grateful for the silence. But the peace didn't last.

"Tessa," Brett's voice cut through the quiet of the pantry.

I didn't look up from the wine glass I was drying. "Yes, Brett?"

"You have a guest," he said. His voice was different today—not angry, not smug, but highly strained, as if he were trying to swallow a large stone. "In the office. Now."

I set the glass down, my brow furrowing. "The office? Who is it?"

"Just go," Brett whispered, his eyes darting toward the hallway. "And Tessa... whatever you do, don't make him angry."

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.

I walked down the narrow corridor, my sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum. The door to the manager’s office was cracked open. I pushed it open slowly.

The room was small, cluttered with old paper receipts, a safe, and a cheap metal desk. Sitting in the office chair—a chair that usually looked flimsy and worn—was Salvatore Marquetti. He looked entirely out of place among the cheap office furniture, like a king sitting on a plastic throne.

He was wearing a gray tailored suit today, his hands folded neatly over the handle of a dark umbrella resting between his knees.

When he saw me, his eyes tracked my movement until I stopped a few feet from the desk. He didn't move a muscle, but the tension in the room instantly spiked.

He lifted one hand, his fingers moving with deliberate, slow grace.

Sit down, Tessa.

I pulled the secondary wooden chair out and sat. I kept my posture straight, my hands resting in my lap.

Why are you here, Mr. Marquetti? I signed. This is not Thursday. And this is not Table Seven.

I wanted to speak with you without your manager hovering like a parasite, he signed back. His gaze was intense, analyzing every micro-expression on my face. I had my associates look into you.

A cold chill ran down my spine. I sat up straighter. I am a waitress. I have nothing to hide.

I know, Salvatore signed. I know about your brother, Danny. I know about his hearing loss. I know about the classes you take on the South Side. I know how much you earn, and how much you need.

Are you threatening me? My hands moved sharper now, my anger finally overriding my fear. If you want to hurt me, do it. But leave my brother out of this.

Salvatore’s expression didn't change, but his eyes softened by a fraction. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, dark blue leather checkbook. He didn't write anything. He simply laid it on the desk between us.

I do not threaten women, Tessa. And I certainly do not threaten children, he signed. I am here to offer you a job.

I stared at the checkbook, then back at his face. A job? Doing what?

I live in a world of wolves, Salvatore signed, his movements becoming fluid and rapid. Everyone wants to speak for me. Everyone wants to translate for me. But the people I hire to translate my signs... they are loyal to the money, or they are loyal to my rivals. They change my words. They hide things from me, thinking I cannot understand the whispers behind my back.

He leaned forward, his large frame casting a long shadow over the desk.

I need a voice I can trust. Someone who does not belong to the families. Someone who has a reason to stay loyal. I will pay you ten times what you make here. I will provide the best doctors in the country for your brother's ears. In exchange, you will be my personal translator. You will go where I go. You will hear what they think I cannot hear. And you will tell me the truth.

I sat in silence, my mind racing. Ten times my salary. Doctors for Danny. It was everything I had spent the last five years praying for, wrapped in a beautiful, dangerous package.

But it meant entering the mafia. It meant standing beside a man who was feared by the entire city.

Why me? I signed. You could hire anyone. You could force anyone.

Salvatore looked at his own hands for a moment, his fingers tracing the scar on his wrist. When he looked back up, his eyes were incredibly dark, reflecting the dim light of the office.

Because when you signed to me last Thursday, you did not look at me with pity. And you did not look at me with fear. You looked at me like I was a man.