Chapter 2 - Shadows of BensonhurstThe tension in the private dining room was thick enough to carve with a bread knife. Martin Galloway was sweating profusely against the mahogany wall, looking as though he might pass out at any second.
Dominic’s hand hovered casually near his lapel, his thumb brushing the fabric just above where a polished Beretta rested in a custom shoulder holster. One word from him, and the evening would turn from a high-society dinner into an execution.
“Nobody sent me,” Penelope answered, her voice unwavering as she met his lethal gaze head-on. “Your father complained that the chef’s lemon-butter reduction was too sweet for the sea bass, and that the kitchen was treating him like an out-of-town tourist instead of someone who grew up eating salt cod. Martin was panicking because he doesn't know the difference between fine dining and corporate catering. I brought out the proper pairing salt, and when your father muttered under his breath about incompetent fools who’ve never smelled sea salt, I answered in the only language that made him shut up and listen.”
Salvatore Moretti let out a sudden, booming bark of raw laughter. It was a sharp, barking sound that shocked everyone at the table, breaking the suffocating ice of the room.
“She’s got grit, Dom,” Salvatore said, leaning back in his chair and waving a silver fork in Penelope’s direction. “The girl’s got the tongue of a Trapani fishwife. I like her. She has more spine than the entire board of directors at my shipping terminals.”
Dominic didn't laugh. His eyes remained fixed on Penelope, studying her with a clinical, predatory curiosity that unnerved her far more than his father’s approval. He slowly lowered his hand from his jacket.
“You have the dialect of the old coast, but you work twelve-hour shifts carrying plates for minimum wage in a Midtown restaurant,” Dominic noted softly, stepping a fraction closer. “That doesn't add up, Penelope. In my world, coincidences are just poorly planned setups.”
“Then check my file, Mr. Moretti,” Penelope retorted, a flash of righteous anger finally cutting through her fear. She was tired of being dismissed, first by Martin for not being “elegant” enough, and now by a mafia boss treating her like a corporate spy. “You clearly already know everything about everyone in this city. You know my rent is three months behind, you know my mother worked herself to death in an apparel factory in Brooklyn, and you probably know what brand of coffee I bought this morning. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old waitress because life doesn't hand out trust funds to kids from Bensonhurst.”
Silence descended again, heavier this time. Martin Galloway looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue. Nobody spoke to Dominic Moretti like that—let alone a front-line server in a polyester vest.
Instead of exploding, Dominic’s lips twitched into a dangerous, razor-thin smile.
“A fighter,” Dominic murmured. He turned his head toward the cowering manager. “Martin?”
“Y-yes, Mr. Moretti?” Martin squeaked, leaping forward like a startled rabbit.
“Is she your best server?”
“She... well, her guest satisfaction scores are technically the—yes, sir,” Martin admitted miserably.
“Then why was she hidden in the back hallway tonight?” Dominic’s voice dropped an octave, turning glacial.
“I... we wanted a specific... aesthetic for the Moretti family reception,” Martin stammered, sweating through his silk tie. “More upscale, more—”
“More compliant,” Dominic finished for him coldly. He turned back to Penelope, his eyes softening just a fraction—not into kindness, but into a strange, calculating respect. “Effective tomorrow morning, Martin, your restaurant will be under new management auditing. And Penelope?”
May you like
She stood tall. “Yes?”
“You’re done carrying trays for men who don't know your value.” Dominic pulled a heavy, embossed black business card from his breast pocket and slid it delicately between the fingers of her right hand. “Call that number at eight o’clock tomorrow. We have an opening in our corporate acquisitions department for someone who speaks fluent Sicilian and doesn't flinch when stared at.”
