"I accidentally called the city's most feared mob boss 'baby'—unaware his bodyguards were seconds away from pulling their guns."

My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I was certain Roman Gallagher could hear it over the low bass vibrating from the club floor. I stood anchored to the plush carpet, the empty silver tray clutched tightly in my right hand, my knuckles turning stark white.

Four broad-shouldered men in tailored dark suits maintained their deadly posture around the leather booth. One guard’s hand remained hooked inside his jacket, his knuckles pale against the leather of a concealed shoulder holster.

"Say it again," Roman repeated, his velvet baritone carrying a quiet, terrifying resonance. "Slower."

"Boss..." the guard on his left, a man with a scarred jawline named Viktor, whispered with urgent caution. "She disrespects you in your own establishment. Let us handle this."

Roman didn't turn his head. He didn't even blink. He raised two fingers of his left hand in a lazy, sovereign gesture, and Viktor instantly snapped his mouth shut, stepping back half a pace into the shadows.

My brain screamed at me to drop to my knees, to stammer out excuses about my boyfriend David, to explain the text messages buzzing against my hip. But one look into Roman’s storm-gray eyes told me that groveling would only seal my fate. Men like Roman Gallagher fed on weakness.

I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my shoulders to drop and my spine to straighten.

"I said," I began, my voice steady despite the sheer terror liquidating my insides, "here you go... baby."

A sharp, collective gasp rippled through the surrounding guards. Viktor’s hand twitched further into his jacket.

Roman didn't order my execution.

Instead, a rich, low chuckle rumbled from his deep chest—a sound so unexpected and intoxicating that it made the skin on my arms prickle with a strange, electrical heat. He reached out his long, calloused fingers, taking the crystal glass of twenty-year-old bourbon I had set down, and took a slow, unhurried sip without breaking eye contact.

"You have nerve, little waitress," Roman murmured, setting the crystal glass back down onto the napkin with a soft CLINK. "What is your name?"

"Clara," I replied, my hazel eyes holding his gray ones without flinching. "Clara Vance."

"Clara Vance," Roman tested the name on his tongue, as if evaluating a priceless asset. He leaned forward, resting his broad forearms on the table, bringing his face into the warm amber light of the booth lamp. "Tell me, Clara... does your 'baby' usually drink twenty-year-old bourbon, or does he settle for cheap beer while you work nine-hour shifts to pay his bills?"

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

He hadn't just heard my mistake; his people had already mapped out my life before I even stepped up to his table.