Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Crystal
The service corridor smelled of damp industrial laundry, grease traps, and cold rain blowing through the kitchen loading bay.
Mr. Romano’s hand stayed around my wrist, firm as a steel handcuff, guiding me through the kitchen staff who flattened themselves against stainless-steel prep tables. No chef spoke. No dishwasher dared to look up from the steaming sinks.
"My uncle died in a car accident," I said, digging my worn rubber work soles into the slippery tile floor. "The police report said brake failure on the expressway four years ago."
Romano didn't break his stride. His towering frame cut through the kitchen heat like an arctic wind, dragging me along with effortless power.
"Your uncle was a senior customs auditor at the Port of Newark, Isabella," Romano replied, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through my bones. "He intercepted four shipping containers labeled industrial grain that were packed with military-grade automatic rifles."
My chest seized up, every instinct screaming at me to pull away.
"You're lying to me," I gasped, wincing as a bead of warm blood dripped from my sliced palm onto the sleeve of my catering shirt. "He was a quiet civil servant who grew hydrangeas in Queens!"
Romano stopped abruptly near the reinforced rear exit door, spinning me around until my shoulders brushed the painted brick wall.
His gray-blue eyes were terrifyingly sharp under the fluorescent strip bulbs overhead. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a clean white silk handkerchief, wrapping it around my bleeding palm with clinical precision.
"Quiet civil servants don't bury encrypted flash drives inside vintage music boxes, Isabella," he murmured, his breath brushing my hairline. "And they don't leave instructions naming their niece as the sole legal beneficiary of a private safety deposit box at Manhattan Central Bank."
The world tilted beneath my feet.
My uncle Mateo had given me an antique wooden music box for my eighteenth birthday, telling me to keep it safe no matter what happened to him. I had kept it on my nightstand through four years of college and grueling nursing shifts, never once prying open the base.
"How do you know about that?" I whispered, my voice trembling with sudden, dizzying panic.
"Because the men who cut his brake lines have been tearing New York apart looking for it," Romano answered, tucking the edge of the silk band tight around my skin. "The man on the terrace tonight wasn't a guest. That was Viktor Petrov, the chief enforcer of the Bratva."
The rear door was pushed open from the outside by a burly man wearing an earpiece and a heavy woolen trench coat.
A sleek, armored black sedan was idling in the narrow alleyway, exhaust curling into the freezing autumn rain.
"Is the route clear, Dante?" Romano asked without turning around.
"Two spotter cars near the front awning, boss," Dante reported in a rough voice. "Petrov’s men know she was on the roster. They're already checking server records with the event manager."
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Romano’s hand dropped from my wrist to the small of my back, guiding me firmly toward the idling vehicle.
"Get in, Isabella," Romano said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "From this second forward, the waitress who works catering shifts to pay nursing tuition no longer exists."
