"The old mafia boss insulted me in a rare Sicilian dialect nobody was supposed to understand—unaware I was about to answer him in his childhood language."

Our head executive chef, a arrogant Frenchman who usually screamed at waitstaff for touching his garnishes, was standing three feet away from the grill while I supervised the line cook.

"Garlic crushed with the flat of the blade, not minced," I instructed quietly in English, pointing to the cast-iron skillet heating over the open flame. "Use the dark Sicilian olive oil from the reserve pantry. And do not trim the fat off the bone."

"This is insane, Tessa!" Richard whispered frantically near my ear, wiping sweat from his forehead with a cloth. "Do you have any idea who that man is?! That's Salvatore Rossi! He ran the Five Families for thirty years! If he doesn't like the steak, he won't just leave a bad review—he'll buy the building and turn it into a parking lot!"

"He doesn't want fancy food, Richard," I said, picking up the heavy ceramic platter. "He wants home."

I walked back out into the dining room.

Every pair of eyes in the restaurant followed me. The wealthy patrons, the hedge fund managers, the socialites—they all sat in terrified silence, pretending to cut their expensive appetizers while watching the waitress carry a sizzling platter toward the back booth.

I set the platter down in front of Don Salvatore.

The aroma of charred bone, crushed garlic, rosemary, and rich, peppery olive oil filled the alcove.

Don Salvatore looked down at the steak. He didn't pick up his fork. He picked up his steak knife, sliced a thick piece directly near the bone where the fat had caramelized over the open fire, and placed it into his mouth.

He chewed slowly.

Gabriel watched his father, his posture rigid, his gray eyes unblinking.

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.

Don Salvatore closed his eyes. For a single, fleeting moment, the terrifying mafia don vanished, replaced by an old man who looked eighty years away from Manhattan, standing in the sunlit hills of his youth.

He opened his eyes and looked up at me.

"The salt is right," he muttered in Sicilian.

"Mr. Cosenza said a man who skimps on salt deserves to eat grass," I answered softly.

Don Salvatore reached into his inner jacket pocket. My breath caught for a split second, but he didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out a heavy, antique silver pocket watch engraved with a crest of an olive branch wrapped around a dagger.

He set the watch flat on the table beside his plate.

"Every Thursday," Salvatore declared, his baritone echoing softly against the dark leather booth. "At eight o'clock. You will serve this table, Tessa."

"I work the dinner shift, Your Grace," I replied. "As long as the tips pay my medical bills, I'll be here."