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

By Friday morning, I was no longer a waitress at Bellamy’s.

I had walked in, handed Brett my resignation, and left without waiting for him to process it. The look of sheer, confused fury on his face had been worth every second of the cold walk home.

Now, I was sitting in the back of a luxury black town car, my fingers nervously twisting the strap of my new, professional black satchel. Next to me sat Salvatore. He was reading a file, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, making him look more like a corporate CEO than a underworld boss.

We were heading to the Drake Hotel, where Salvatore was scheduled to meet with Dominic Valenti, the head of the rival Valenti family.

Are you nervous? Salvatore signed, not looking up from his file.

I jumped slightly, not realizing he was paying attention to me. A little. I have never been to the Drake. Or met a... family head.

Dominic is an old man who thinks he is still in the 1980s, Salvatore signed, closing the file and turning to look at me. He will try to intimidate you. He will think you are my mistress or a cheap assistant. Let him think that. Your only job is to sit behind me, watch his lips, and watch his associates. If they whisper, you write down what they say on your notepad.

And if they try to hurt us? I signed.

Salvatore’s gaze hardened. He reached down, parting his jacket slightly to reveal the matte-black holster secured beneath his arm.

No one hurts you while you are with me, Tessa. I protect my people.

The car pulled up to the grand entrance of the Drake. The door was opened by a valet, and Salvatore stepped out, offering his hand to help me up. His grip was warm, solid, and incredibly reassuring.

We were escorted to a private dining room on the top floor, overlooking the misty expanse of Lake Michigan. Dominic Valenti was already there, surrounded by four large, silent men in heavy coats. Dominic was in his late sixties, with slicked-back white hair and a gold pinky ring that caught the light.

"Salvatore," Dominic said, his voice loud and booming, as if he believed shouting would make up for Salvatore’s lack of hearing. "Glad you could make it. And who is the lovely lady?"

Salvatore didn't look at Dominic's mouth. He kept his eyes on the old man's face, his expression neutral.

I stepped forward, my voice clear and professional. "My name is Tessa Whitlock, Mr. Valenti. I am Mr. Marquetti’s personal secretary and translator."

Dominic let out a raspy laugh. "A translator? Since when does the great Salvatore need a girl to speak for him? He's been doing just fine with his hands for years."

Salvatore raised his hands, signing quickly.

I translated immediately, keeping my voice flat, mirroring Salvatore’s lack of emotion. "Mr. Marquetti says that as his business expands, he prefers to have a precise record of all agreements. He does not want any... misunderstandings."

Dominic’s smile faded slightly. "Fine. Let's talk about the shipping yards."

For the next hour, the meeting was a tense game of chess. Dominic argued, gestured wildly, and tried to bully Salvatore into giving up three major warehouses near the canal. Salvatore remained a stone wall, occasionally signing a brief, devastating counter-offer that I translated with perfect calm.

But the real danger wasn't what was being said out loud.

During a brief pause while Dominic was looking over a contract, one of his associates—a younger man with a nasty scar across his lip—leaned toward the man next to him. They spoke in quiet, rapid whispers, barely moving their lips.

But I was watching.

“The shipment arrives at Warehouse 4 tonight at midnight,” the scarred man whispered. “Once Marquetti signs this contract, we tip off the feds. He’ll be locked up before the weekend, and the docks will be ours.”