No One Could Handle the Mafia Boss’s Daughter — Until a Poor Waitress Did the Impossible. Everyone around held their breath in anticipation.

“That’s vintage, right?” Casey asked, nodding at the dress. “Silk. Maybe Versace. Water spots would destroy it. Tragic.”

The silence cracked.

The threat of death was familiar territory to Sienna. Men had threatened it, promised it, whispered it in loyalty and rage. But a waitress threatening her wardrobe? That was new enough to break through the performance.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sienna said.

Casey stepped closer. “Try me.”

The bodyguards did nothing. They could not have explained why later if anyone had asked. Maybe they were too shocked. Maybe, for the first time in months, they were watching someone speak to Sienna in a language that got past the armor.

Casey held her gaze. “You want to leave, leave. Walk out the front door like an adult. But stop throwing things. It’s tacky. And for somebody who acts like royalty, you have terrible manners.”

Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen.

Finally Sienna’s white-knuckled grip loosened. She lowered the ashtray and dropped it onto the carpet with a muffled thud. Her mouth curled into a sneer, but something in her eyes had shifted. Not surrender. Not respect. Curiosity, maybe. The kind a tiger might feel before deciding whether to bite.

“You’re boring me,” she snapped.

She shoved past Casey hard enough to bruise a shoulder and stormed down the stairs with her entourage scrambling after her. The main room remained motionless until the front doors slammed behind her and the jazz pianist, hands trembling, began to play again.

Only then did Casey realize her own pulse was rioting.

Rocco paused on his way out, staring at her. “You got a death wish, kid?”

“Not tonight,” Casey muttered.

She picked up the ashtray, set the table right, and went back downstairs.

Ten minutes later, her manager tapped her arm with fingers that looked boneless.

“There’s a man in the office,” he whispered.

Casey untied her apron. “Am I fired?”

“I don’t know.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s Dante Valenti.”

That name hit harder than the exploding bottle.

Everybody in Chicago knew Dante Valenti. Salvatore Morelli’s enforcer. The man who handled problems too ugly, too delicate, or too final for anybody else. Stories about him drifted through kitchens, bars, and backrooms like urban legends wearing expensive shoes. He was said to be as cold as a lake in January and twice as deep.

Casey went to the office because…..

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