Waitress Helped Quiet Girl Daily — Until Her Mafia Boss Father Walked In With 4 Bodyguards
Amidst the chaos of clattering plates and shouting line cooks, there was one anomaly that broke the dreary rhythm of Carissa’s life. Her name was Mia. Mia was a delicate, doll-like child of no more than 7 years old. She had large, expressive hazel eyes that seemed far too old for her small face and a cascade of dark curls perfectly tamed by expensive ribbons.
She was vastly out of place in the Rusty Spoon. While the other patrons wore oil-stained denim and faded flannel, Mia arrived every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 3:15 p.m. wearing pristine Burberry coats, patent leather Mary Janes, and cashmere sweaters. She never arrived alone, but her companion was hardly a caretaker.
A massive, stone-faced man named Paulie, who wore cheap suits that bulged suspiciously at the shoulder, would drive her in a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows. He would escort her to corner booth number four, hand her a $20 bill, and then retreat to the parking lot to smoke cigarettes in the rain until she was finished. He never spoke to Charissa.
He barely looked at her. Mia, too, was completely silent. She suffered from what Charissa assumed was severe selective mutism. The first time Charissa had taken her order, the little girl had simply pointed at the picture of a grilled cheese sandwich on the laminated menu and held up a single finger. Charissa, possessing a heart that was too soft for the brutal city she lived in, immediately took a shining to the quiet girl.
There was a profound, suffocating sadness in Mia’s hazel eyes, a loneliness that Charissa recognized in her own reflection. “Just the grilled cheese today, sweetie?” Charissa had asked softly during that first week, kneeling beside the booth so she wouldn’t tower over the child. Mia nodded once, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“How about some chocolate milk? On the house. We have the good kind, with the thick syrup,” Charissa offered, flashing a warm, genuine smile. Mia’s eyes had widened slightly, and the faintest ghost of a smile touched her lips. She nodded again. From that day on, a silent, beautiful routine was born. Charissa went out of her way to make booth four a sanctuary.
She bought a fresh pack of Crayola crayons and a thick coloring book out of her own meager tips, keeping them hidden behind the counter strictly for Mia’s visits. While the diner raged with the lunchtime rush, Charissa would always find a minute to slip into the booth across from the little girl. They communicated in colors and sketches.
Mia was an incredibly gifted artist for her age. While other children drew stick figures and smiling suns, Mia drew complex, shaded portraits of the city skyline, dark alleyways, and sometimes beautiful, sad-looking women who Carissa guessed might be her absent mother. Carissa never pushed the girl to speak. She just sat with her, offering a warm presence, a slice of cherry pie, and a gentle barrier between the child and the rougher elements of the diner.
Sometimes, Carissa would talk to fill the silence, speaking in a low, soothing voice about her own life, the stray cat she fed behind her apartment, the books she read to escape reality, her dreams of one day leaving Chicago and opening a small bakery by the ocean in Maine. Mia would listen intently, her crayon pausing on the paper, absorbing every word Carissa said as if it were gospel.
Carissa noticed the details. She noticed that despite the expensive clothes, Mia’s cuffs were sometimes a little frayed, as if whoever bought them didn’t know she was growing. She noticed that the girl flinched whenever a man in the diner raised his voice. And most importantly, she noticed the way Mia looked at her with a fierce, quiet attachment that made Carissa’s chest ache.
One rainy Thursday in late October, the diner was particularly slow. Carissa slid into the booth opposite Mia, wiping her hands on her apron. Rough weather out there today, huh, kiddo? Mia looked up from her paper, her dark curls falling over her eyes. She pushed a drawing across the sticky table. It was a picture of a large, dark castle with a high wall around it.
Standing outside the wall was a small girl, drawn in gray crayon. Standing on the wall, reaching down with a bright yellow hand, was a woman with blond hair and a blue apron, Carissa. Carissa felt a lump form in her throat. She carefully folded the drawing and slipped it into her apron pocket. “It’s beautiful, Mia.
I’m going to put it right on my refrigerator.” For the first time in 3 months, Mia reached across the table and placed her small, cold hand over Charissa’s scarred, work-worn fingers. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a shockwave of maternal protectiveness straight to Charissa’s heart. She didn’t know who this girl belonged to or why she was left in a seedy diner with a brooding driver, but Charissa swore silently that as long as Mia was in her section, she would be safe.
She had no idea that the girl’s safety was the least of her worries. The true danger was already circling Charissa, and the quiet little girl was watching every single move. By November, the biting Chicago wind had turned brutal, but the chill outside was nothing compared to the ice forming in Charissa’s veins. Her financial situation had deteriorated from precarious to disastrous.
The medical debt had been sold to a collection agency, but worse, to keep the lights on and the rent paid during a brief hospital stint of her own, Charissa had made a desperate, unforgivable mistake. She had borrowed money from Tommy Fingers Russo. Tommy was a mid-level loan shark who operated out of a pawn shop three blocks down.
He was a repulsive man with a gold tooth, a penchant for cheap cologne, and a reputation for breaking bones before asking for his money. Charissa owed him $8,000. With the exorbitant interest, the number had ballooned to 12,000 in just 2 months. The pressure was suffocating. Charissa wasn’t sleeping. She was dropping plates, mixing up orders, and losing the bright, hopeful demeanor that usually charmed her customers.
The only time she forced herself to smile was on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 3:15 p.m. It was a Tuesday when Tommy decided to pay a visit to the Rusty Spoon. The diner was relatively empty. Mia was in booth four, meticulously coloring a picture of a lion, sipping the hot chocolate Carissa had made her.
Sharissa was at the register counting out singles when the little bell above the door chimed violently. Tommy swaggered in accompanied by a thick-necked enforcer wearing a leather jacket. The smell of his overpowering cologne hit Sharissa before he even reached the counter. “Well, well, if it ain’t my favorite waitress.
” Tommy sneered leaning his elbows on the laminate counter. He picked up a sugar packet and tossed it lazily. “You’re looking a little pale, Sharissa. You sick? Because if you die, I’m going to be real disappointed about my investment.” Carissa’s hands trembled, but she forced them flat against the register. “Tommy, please.
I told you I get paid on Friday. I’ll have a thousand for you, I swear.” “A thousand?” Tommy laughed, a harsh grating sound that made several patrons look up then quickly look down at their plates. “The interest this week is 1,500, sweetheart. You’re falling behind.” “I’m doing the best I can.” Sharissa whispered, her voice cracking.
“Please keep your voice down.” Tommy’s eyes darkened. He reached across the counter with terrifying speed, his thick, hairy hand clamping down on Carissa’s wrist like a vise. He squeezed until she gasped in pain. “I don’t care about your best, Sharissa.” He hissed leaning in close so she could smell the stale cigar smoke on his breath. “You owe me 1,500 large now.
You got until Friday to give me half or I’m going to start taking it out of your pretty little hide. And trust me, I’ll put you to work somewhere a lot less wholesome than this dump.” He twisted her wrist sharply making her cry out softly before letting go. He patted her cheek patronizingly. “Friday, Sharissa.
” Tommy and his goon turned and walked out, the bell chiming a cheerful, mocking tune behind them. Sharissa stood frozen, clutching her bruised wrist, tears hot and fast spilling over her eyelashes. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to steady her breathing, trying to hold back the panic attack threatening to swallow her whole.
When she opened her eyes, she looked toward booth four. Mia was standing up on the vinyl seat. Her crayons were scattered across the table. The little girl was staring at the door where Tommy had exited. And for a moment, Sharissa swore the child’s hazel eyes looked entirely different. The sadness was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp, calculating fury that looked bizarre and deeply unsettling on a seven-year-old’s face.
Sharissa hurried over, hastily wiping her tears with the back of her hand. I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry you had to see that. It’s okay. Everything is fine. Mia slowly turned her gaze to Sharissa. She looked down at Sharissa’s reddened wrist where Tommy’s fingerprints were already beginning to bruise the pale skin.
Mia gently reached out with her small fingers and traced the edge of the bruise. She didn’t say a word, but she looked back up into Sharissa’s eyes with a promise that Sharissa couldn’t comprehend. Mia sat back down. She picked up a black crayon. She didn’t draw a castle or a cat that day. She drew a crude dark figure of a man with a gold tooth.
And then, with violent pressing strokes, she covered the man in heavy red scribbles until the crayon snapped in half. When Polly came to collect her at 4:00, Mia walked out without looking back. Sharissa stood by the window rubbing her wrist, a deep sense of dread settling in her stomach. Thursday came. Sharissa bought a fresh blueberry muffin for Mia, setting it on the table at 3:10 p.m. 3:15 p.m. passed.
No black Lincoln Navigator. Mia didn’t show up. Sharissa’s heart plummeted. Had she scared the girl away? Had Polly seen the interaction with Tommy and reported to Mia’s parents that the diner was unsafe? Or worse, had something happened to the child? The weekend was an agonizing blur of fear for both her own safety and Mia’s absence.
Friday came, but Tommy didn’t show up to collect his money. Carissa waited in terrified suspense, jumping at every shadow, but the loan shark was a no-show. The following Tuesday, Mia was absent again. Thursday, empty booth. Three full weeks passed. Carissa fell into a deep depression. She realized how much the quiet little girl had anchored her, how much those silent 30 minutes had meant.
The diner felt colder, grayer. Even the manager, Rick, noticed Carissa’s sunken eyes and lack of energy, though he chalked it up to her financial woes. Then came the second Tuesday of December. The weather was a torrential downpour, the kind of freezing Chicago rain that turned the streets to rivers and kept everyone indoors.
The diner was nearly deserted by 3:00 p.m. Carissa was wiping down the counter, lost in thoughts of eviction and broken bones, missing the little girl with the hazel eyes more than ever. At exactly 3:15 p.m., the atmosphere in the Rusty Spoon abruptly shifted. It wasn’t a subtle change. It was as if the air pressure in the room suddenly plummeted, making the hair on the back of Carissa’s neck stand up.
Outside the rain-streaked windows, it wasn’t one black Lincoln Navigator pulling up to the curb. It was four. The heavy vehicles idled at the curb like dark armored beasts in the relentless rain. The few patrons sitting at the counter stopped chewing. Rick, who was in the back counting the meager till, stepped out from the kitchen, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses.
The doors of the SUVs opened simultaneously. Out stepped four men, but these were not local street thugs like Tommy Russo. These men radiated a lethal, terrifying professionalism. They wore immaculate, tailored, charcoal suits that remained unaffected by the downpour, heavy wool overcoats, and discreet earpieces. The first man through the door was tall with a vicious scar slicing through his left eyebrow.
Enzo. He didn’t look at the menu board. His eyes swept the corners of the diner, registering every exit, every patron, every blind spot. He was followed by Carmine, a man built like a freight train, his heavy with dark ink. Next came Leo and Arthur, moving with the synchronized precision of military operatives.
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They didn’t sit. They didn’t order. Enzo walked directly to the front door, flipped the open sign to closed, and turned the deadbolt with a loud, final click. Carmine took a position by the kitchen door, crossing his massive arms, blocking Rick. “Hey, buddy, you can’t just” Rick started to stammer, but a single, dead-eyed glance from Carmine silenced him instantly.
The diner was completely, paralyzingly quiet. The only sound was the drumming of the rain against the glass and the sizzle of the grill. Charissa stood frozen behind the counter, the wet rag slipping from her trembling fingers. She thought of Tommy Russo. She thought this was it. He had sold her debt to someone much, much worse, and they were here to collect.
She backed up until her spine hit the stainless steel coffee machine, her breathing shallow and erratic. Then, the back door of the lead SUV opened. A man stepped out into the rain. A subordinate instantly materialized with a black umbrella, holding it over him. As the man walked toward the diner, the front door was swiftly unlocked and held open by Enzo.
He stepped inside. Gabriel Romano was a name whispered in the darkest, most powerful corners of Chicago. Though Charissa didn’t know it yet. He was in his late 30s, radiating an aura of absolute undisputed authority. He was breathtakingly handsome, but in a harsh predatory way. His jaw was chiseled from granite, his dark hair flawlessly styled, and he wore a three-piece suit that cost more than Sharissa would make in five lifetimes.
But, it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs. They were a piercing, cold, calculating gray. He exuded power. Not the loud, bragging power of a street thug, but the quiet, terrifying power of a man who could level a city block with a single phone call. And holding his large, scarred hand, wearing a brand new yellow raincoat and a pair of matching rain boots, was Mia.
Sharissa gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Mia? The little girl didn’t let go of the man’s hand, but her hazel eyes found Sharissa instantly. A small, genuine, radiant smile broke across her usually stoic face. Gabriel Romano looked down at his daughter, his cold gray eyes softening for a fraction of a second before he looked up, his gaze locked onto Sharissa.
The intensity of it pinned her to the wall. He released Mia’s hand and gave her a gentle nudge. Mia let go, running across the checkered linoleum floor. She bypassed the counter, squeezed through the swinging waitstaff door, and wrapped her small arms tightly around Sharissa’s waist, burying her face in the grease-stained apron.
Sharissa, acting purely on instinct, dropped to her knees and hugged the child fiercely, tears spilling hot and fast down her cheeks. “Oh, [snorts] Mia, I was so worried. I thought I thought something happened to you.” She stroked the girl’s wet curls, entirely forgetting the terrifying man standing in the room.
Gabriel walked slowly toward the counter. Every step he took sounded loud in the deathly quiet diner. He stopped right in front of where Sharissa was kneeling. Up close, he was even more intimidating. He smelled of expensive cedar wood, rain, and danger. “She refused to eat.” Gabriel spoke. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Charissa’s chest.
“For 3 weeks, my chefs prepared everything from Wagyu beef to imported truffles. She pushed the plates away. The only thing she communicated to my staff through her drawings was that she wanted the waitress with the blonde hair.” Charissa looked up at him, her arms still protectively wrapped around Mia. “She she just likes the grilled cheese here.
” “I am well aware of what she likes.” Gabriel said, his tone entirely unreadable. “I am also aware of what she does not like. She does not like men raising their voices. She does not like people who cause you pain.” Charissa’s blood ran cold. She slowly stood up, keeping Mia gently tucked behind her leg. “I I don’t understand.” Gabriel rested his hands on the counter, leaning in slightly.
The proximity made Charissa want to shrink away, but she held her ground. “My daughter has not spoken a word since her mother passed away 2 years ago. She has been in the care of nannies, specialists, and drivers while I conduct my business. Yet, I am told by Polly that she has been coming here, drawing you pictures, and allowing you to sit with her.
” He paused, his gray eyes flicking down to Charissa’s wrist, which still bore the faint yellowish remnant of a bruise. “I was away in New York on business 3 weeks ago.” Gabriel continued smoothly. “When I returned, Mia presented me with a drawing. A drawing of a man with a gold tooth covered in red scribbles. She also pointed to her own wrist, and then pointed to a drawing of you crying.
” Charissa’s heart stopped beating. Tommy. Gabriel’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop another 10°. Thomas Russo was a parasite. A mid-level nuisance who operated in a territory that belongs to my family. He had a habit of extorting vulnerable women. When I discovered he had laid hands on a woman my daughter has grown inexplicably attached to, Gabriel tilted his head slightly. Let us just say Mr.
Russo’s debt collection business has been permanently liquidated. You no longer owe him a dime, Ms. Bailey, or anyone else for that matter. Carissa felt the diner spin. Tommy was gone. Just like that. Because a 7-year-old girl drew a picture with a red crayon. She looked from the terrifying mafia boss to the sweet little girl holding on to her pant leg.
You You killed him? Carissa whispered, horrified. I solved a problem, Gabriel corrected coldly. I am a man who protects what is his. And apparently, Mia has decided that you belong to us. He stood up straight, buttoning his suit jacket. >> [snorts] >> Pack your things, Ms. Bailey. Carissa blinked, stunned. Pack my What? Why? Because, Gabriel Romano said, his voice leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Mia refuses to be cared for by anyone else. You are no longer a waitress at this establishment. As of this moment, you are my daughter’s private caretaker. You will live at the estate. Your debts are cleared. Your salary will be 10 times what you make in a year here. And you will never have to fear a man like Thomas Russo again. I can’t just leave, Carissa stammered, looking back at Rick, who was violently nodding his head, silently begging her to go so the men would leave.
My apartment, my life, you can’t just walk in here and kidnap me. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed slightly. A terrifying flash of dominance bleeding through his calm facade. He looked down at Mia. Mia, ask her. Carissa looked down. Mia tugged on Carissa’s apron. The little girl looked up, her hazel eyes wide and pleading.
She opened her mouth. Carissa held her breath. For the first time in over two years, a tiny, raspy, delicate voice broke the silence of the room. “Please, Sharissa.” Mia whispered, “Come home with us.” Carissa stared at the child, completely undone. She looked back up at Gavriel, who was watching his daughter with a look of absolute shocked reverence.
The ruthless mob boss looked, for a fleeting second, like a desperate, relieved father. Sharissa looked at the greasy walls of the Rusty Spoon, and then down at the little hand gripping hers so tightly. She was stepping out of the frying pan and directly into the fire of the Chicago underworld. “Okay.” Sharissa breathed out, her fate sealed.
“Okay. Let me get my coat.” The black Lincoln Navigator glided through the rain-swept streets of Chicago, leaving the gritty neon glow of the South Side far behind. Carissa sat in the spacious leather back seat, Mia tucked securely under her arm, the little girl fast asleep against her side. Across from them sat Gavriel Romano, scrolling through a secure tablet, the pale blue light illuminating the sharp, ruthless planes of his face.
He hadn’t spoken since they left the Rusty Spoon. They turned onto Astor Street in the historic Gold Coast district, an area of the city Carissa had only ever seen in glossy magazines. The SUV approached a massive wrought-iron gate that swung open silently, revealing a sprawling limestone mansion heavily obscured by towering oak trees and high brick walls.
It wasn’t just a home, it was a fortress. Carissa’s introduction to her new life was dizzying. She was ushered inside by a fleet of silent staff. A stern but polite housekeeper named Mrs. Gable showed Sharisa to her quarters, a massive sunlit suite with a marble bathroom, a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, and a walk-in closet already stocked with designer clothes in her exact size. “Mr.
Romano prefers his staff to blend in with the estate standards,” Mrs. Gable explained without a hint of judgment, gesturing to the rows of silk blouses and cashmere cardigans. For the first 2 weeks, Carissa felt like an impostor, playing dress-up in a dangerous dollhouse. But her focus remained entirely on Mia. The little girl’s progress was nothing short of miraculous.
Away from the sensory overload of the diner and the lingering trauma of her past, Mia blossomed. She began speaking in full sentences, though her voice remained soft and cautious. They spent their days in the estate’s sunroom, painting canvases, reading books, and playing complex games of hide-and-seek among the priceless antiques.
Gabriel, however, remained a brooding phantom. He was gone before Sharisa woke and often returned long after she had put Mia to bed. But his presence was ubiquitous. Sharisa felt the heavy, suffocating weight of his security everywhere. Enzo or Carmine shadowed them at a discreet distance, even within the house. The dynamic between Carissa and the Mafia boss shifted abruptly on a freezing Tuesday in late January.
Carissa had crept down to the kitchen at 2:00 a.m., desperate for a glass of warm milk to soothe her racing thoughts. She wore a simple white silk robe she’d found in her closet. As she padded barefoot down the dimly lit hallway, she noticed the heavy mahogany door to Gabriel’s study was ajar. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over walls lined with leather-bound books and oil paintings.
Gabriel sat behind a massive desk, an untouched glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looked exhausted, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, his tie discarded. Charissa meant to walk past, but his voice, a low magnetic rumble, stopped her dead in her tracks. “You can’t sleep either, Ms. Bailey?” Charissa hesitated before stepping tentatively into the doorway.
“Just Charissa, please. And no, it’s it’s a very quiet house.” Gabriel’s lips curved into a bitter, humorless smile. “Quiet is a luxury in my line of work. Come in. Sit.” It wasn’t a request. Charissa stepped into the study, the plush Persian rug soft beneath her bare feet, and took a seat in the wingback chair opposite his desk.
He stared at her, his piercing gray eyes tracking over her silken robe and loose blond hair. The intensity of his gaze made her skin prickle with a sudden, overwhelming heat. “Mia laughed today,” Gabriel said softly, swirling the scotch in his glass. “I heard it from the hallway before I left. I haven’t heard that sound since she was 5 years old.
” “She has a beautiful laugh,” Charissa replied, her voice trembling slightly under his heavy stare. “She’s a brilliant girl, Gabriel. She just needed to feel safe.” Gabriel leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “And do you feel safe here, Charissa?” The question hung in the air, thick with unspoken implications.
Charissa thought of Tommy Russo, whose disappearance had made the local news as a suspected mob hit. She thought of the armed guards at her door. “I feel safe from the things I used to fear,” Charissa answered honestly. “But I know who you are. I know what pays for this house. I’m not naive.” Gabriel’s eyes darkened, a dangerous thrill flashing in them.
He stood up, walking slowly around the desk until he was standing directly in front of her chair. He loomed over her, a towering figure of lethal masculinity. He reached down, his scarred fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw. Carissa’s breath caught in her throat. “You should fear me, Carissa.” He murmured, his thumb brushing against her lower lip.
“My world is vicious. A man named Vincent Moretti runs the West Side. He is a butcher who would slit my throat if given the chance, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use anyone in this house to get to me. That is the reality of the cage I have placed you in.” “Then why keep me here?” Carissa whispered, leaning involuntarily into his touch.
Gabriel’s hand slid to the back of her neck, his grip possessive and firm. “Because my daughter needs you, and because, heaven help me, I am finding it incredibly difficult to let you out of my sight.” He didn’t kiss her, but the promise of it, the violent, consuming inevitability of it was burned into the air between them.
He stepped back, his expression masked once more in cold authority. “Go to sleep, Sharissa, and do not leave the estate tomorrow. Enzo will bring whatever you need.” The strict confinement lasted for 3 days before Mia began to grow restless. The walls of the mansion, no matter how beautiful, were still walls. Noting the child’s declining mood, Gabriel reluctantly authorized a highly secure outing.
Sharissa and Mia were to have a private after-hours tour of the Lincoln Park Conservatory. The lush tropical greenhouses would be completely emptied of the public. It was supposed to be a flawless extraction and return, but in Gabriel Romano’s world, peace was an illusion that could shatter in seconds. The trip to the conservatory was magical.
Mia ran through the humid, orchid-filled pathways, marveling at the exotic ferns and koi ponds. Carissa felt a genuine smile stretch across her face as she watched the girl thrive. Enzo and Arthur stood by the exits, their eyes scanning the glass walls with relentless paranoia. At 6:45 p.m., as the winter sun dipped below the horizon, they moved to exit through the rear service doors toward the waiting armored SUV. That was when the world exploded.
The squeal of heavy tires tore through the quiet evening. Two unmarked black vans slammed through the service gate, aggressively blocking the Romano vehicle. “Get down!” Enzo roared, drawing his weapon with blinding speed. Before Carissa could process the threat, the deafening crack of automatic gunfire shattered the tranquility of the park.
The glass of the conservatory doors rained down around them like jagged hail. Pure, unadulterated adrenaline flooded Carissa’s system. She didn’t scream. She didn’t freeze. She lunged forward, tackling Mia to the cold concrete floor behind a heavy stone planter. She curled her body entirely around the small girl, acting as a human shield, pressing Mia’s face into her chest so she couldn’t see the violence unfolding. “I’ve got you, baby.
I’ve got you.” Carissa chanted frantically over the deafening pops of gunfire. Arthur took a hit to the shoulder, staggering back, but continuing to lay down suppressing fire. Enzo was a machine. His shots precise and lethal, dropping two masked men who advanced toward the planter. But they were outgunned.
The Moretti family had sent a hit squad. Suddenly, a searing white-hot pain slashed across Carissa’s upper arm. She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut as warm blood immediately soaked through her wool coat. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out, refusing to let Mia feel her panic. Just as one of the van’s doors slid open to reveal a man with a heavy rifle, the thunderous roar of engines echoed from the street.
Three of Gabriel’s reinforced SUVs smashed into the vans with devastating force. Gunfire erupted from the new arrivals. The Moretti men, realizing they were suddenly vastly outnumbered by Romano reinforcements, scrambled to retreat. Within 60 seconds, the violent storm was over, leaving behind groaning men, shattered glass, and the smell of cordite.
Footsteps sprinted toward the planter. “Charissa, Mia.” It was Gavriel. He had never looked so terrifying. His eyes were wide with a frantic, unhinged panic. His bespoke suit ruined as he dropped to his knees on the glass-covered concrete. Charissa slowly uncurled her body, wincing as the pain in her arm flared. Mia was trembling, but she was completely unharmed.
She immediately launched herself into her father’s arms. Gavriel crushed the girl to his chest, kissing the top of her head repeatedly, his breathing ragged. Then, his eyes snapped to Charissa. He saw the blood pooling on the sleeve of her coat. The relief on his face instantly morphed into a look of absolute murderous fury.
“You’re bleeding,” he snarled, his voice a dangerous low decibel. He handed Mia to a bleeding but conscious Arthur. “Get her in the car. Now.” Gavriel scooped Charissa into his arms as if she weighed nothing. He didn’t wait for the paramedics. He carried her to his personal vehicle, laying her gently across the back seat and climbing in beside her.
“Drive,” he roared at the driver. “Call the private surgeon. Have him at the house in 5 minutes, or I’ll end him.” As the SUV sped through the city, Gavriel ripped open the sleeve of Charissa’s coat and blouse, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he inspected the wound. “It’s a graze,” he said, his voice shaking with an emotion Charissa had never heard from him.
“You took a bullet for her.” “I would never let anything happen to Mia,” Charissa whispered, her head spinning from the shock and blood loss. “Never.” Gavriel pulled off his tie, wrapping it tightly around her arm to staunch the bleeding. His face was inches from hers, his gray eyes dark and tempestuous. “You foolish, brave woman.
You could have been killed.” “I’m fine, Gabriel.” She breathed. “I am not.” He ground out, his forehead resting against hers. His hands framed her face, his thumbs wiping away the dirt and tears on her cheeks. The cold, calculating mafia boss was entirely gone, replaced by a desperate man.
“When I got the call that you were ambushed, my heart stopped, Sharissa. I thought of Mia, yes, but the terror that ripped through my chest, it was for you.” Sharissa looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs for a completely different reason now. “Gabriel, I brought you into this house to save my daughter.” He confessed, his voice a rough whisper.
“But I cannot let you go. If Moretti wants a war, I will burn Chicago to the ground before I let anyone touch you again. You are mine to protect now, both of you.” He didn’t wait for her response. Gabriel leaned down and captured her lips in a fierce, desperate kiss. It tasted of adrenaline, fear, and a burning, undeniable passion.
Sharissa’s [clears throat] good arm wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring herself to the most dangerous man in the city. The diner, the deaths, the lonely nights, they were all a lifetime away. Sharissa Bailey had walked out of a greasy spoon and into the dark, protective embrace of the underworld. And as Gabriel Romano held her close, surrounded by the flashing lights of his armed convoy, Sharissa realized she was exactly where she was meant to be.
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