The Poor Waitress Shared Her Food With an Old Woman—The Next Day, the Mafia Boss Came Looking for He

The tranquility of the Rossi estate vanished in an instant.

Red emergency lights flashed along the perimeter corridors, casting eerie crimson shadows across the marble floors. Outside, sirens wailed in the freezing night, accompanied by the furious barking of patrol dogs and the sharp crackle of security radios.

Delaney stumbled backward, shock coursing through her veins. “Damon, what’s happening?”

Damon was already moving. He opened a concealed panel in the wainscoting of the library, pulling out a Glock 19 and two extra magazines with terrifying speed. He racked the slide with a crisp *clack* and slid the weapon into the waistband of his trousers.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice stripped of all vulnerability, cold and deadly once more.

He gripped Delaney by the wrist, pulling her firmly behind his broad back as he moved into the corridor. Marco and two other armed men sprinted toward them, assault rifles drawn.

“Report,” Damon snapped.

“Perimeter sensor on the south seawall was tripped, Boss,” Marco reported rapidly. “Two boats cut their engines near the private dock. We engaged. One intruder down, two fled back into the water. It was a reconnaissance team. Moretti’s men.”

Damon’s eyes flashed with lethal fury. “They’re testing the perimeter. How did they bypass the harbor radar?”

Marco swallowed hard, his eyes darting sideways. “The sensor on Pier 3 was manually disabled from the interior security terminal twenty minutes ago.”

The air turned instantly sub-zero.

*An inside job.*

Delaney felt a cold shiver run down her spine. The heavily fortified fortress, guarded by dozens of men, had a traitor walking its halls.

“Assemble every guard in the courtyard,” Damon said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Nobody leaves the grounds. Check the surveillance logs. Find out whose keycard accessed that terminal.”

“Boss, what about your mother?” Marco asked.

“Take Miss Whitfield to my mother’s suite immediately,” Damon commanded. He turned to Delaney, his gaze fierce, protective, and urgent. He placed both hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “Stay with Constance. Lock the reinforced door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Marco. Do you understand?”

Delaney nodded frantically. “Damon, be careful.”

A shadow of a smile flickered across his lips before he turned and vanished down the hallway like a phantom of war.

Marco escorted Delaney at a sprint toward Constance’s suite in the east wing. They hurried inside, where the older woman was sitting up in bed, clutching a rosary, her eyes wide with terror as alarms echoed through the estate.

“Delaney!” Constance gasped, reaching out.

“I’m here, Constance. I’m right here,” Delaney said, climbing onto the bed and pulling the frail woman into her arms.

Marco checked the balcony locks, drew the heavy blackout curtains, and positioned himself inside the doorway with his rifle ready. “Door is locked, Miss Whitfield. You’re safe in here.”

For two agonizing hours, Delaney held Constance, whispering soothing words, rocking her as the estate outside echoed with the muffled sounds of searching men and revving engines.

As Constance’s trembling began to subside, she looked up at Delaney, her eyes suddenly remarkably clear, piercingly lucid.

“Delaney,” Constance whispered, her voice conspiratorial.

“Yes, Constance?”

“The night I was in the alley…” Constance breathed, clutching Delaney’s wrist. “I didn't wander off because of my head.”

Delaney froze. “What do you mean?”

Constance looked toward the door, ensuring Marco wasn't listening, then pulled Delaney closer. “I heard him. The nephew. Matteo.”

*Matteo Rossi.*

Damon’s younger cousin, the charming, sharp-dressed lieutenant who managed the syndicate’s nightclub and real estate holdings. He visited the estate twice a week, smiling, kissing Constance’s cheeks, bringing imported pastries.

“What did you hear, Constance?” Delaney asked, her heart racing.

“He was in the garden conservatory on the telephone,” Constance whispered, tears filling her eyes. “He said Damon was becoming weak. He said the Moretti family would take the docks by March, and that he would take Damon’s chair. He saw me listening. He looked at me with eyes like a snake. I got into the delivery van behind the kitchen because I was afraid he was going to kill me. That’s how I ended up downtown. I was running away from him.”

Delaney felt the blood drain completely from her face.

Constance hadn't wandered away in a dementia haze. She had fled for her life. And Matteo had let everyone believe it was simply her illness, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

And tonight, someone had manually disabled Pier 3’s security sensor from inside the house.

Before Delaney could speak, the heavy brass lock on the bedroom door clicked.

Marco raised his weapon instantly.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Damon stepped into the room.

His white shirt was splattered with dark drops of blood across the cuffs, his knuckles scraped raw. But his eyes were clear, cold, and victorious.

“The perimeter is secure,” Damon said, exhaling heavily. “The intruders are eliminated.”

“Did you find the mole?” Delaney blurted out before she could stop herself.

Damon’s eyes locked onto hers, surprised by her directness. “The security terminal was accessed using a cloned master card. We haven't identified the handler yet.”

Delaney gently eased herself out of Constance’s embrace and stood up. She walked over to Damon, keeping her voice low so only he could hear.

“Damon. It’s Matteo.”

Damon’s entire frame went rigid. His eyes flared with absolute disbelief, followed by a terrifying, murderous storm. “What did you say?”

“Constance told me,” Delaney whispered urgently. “The night she went missing, she overheard Matteo plotting with the Moretti family. He threatened her. She fled because she was terrified of him. Matteo is trying to kill you, Damon.”

Damon turned his head slowly toward his mother. Constance nodded weakly from the bed, her face pale.

“He has the devil in his heart, Damon,” Constance wept softly. “Your uncle’s boy wants your blood.”

A dead, suffocating silence descended upon the room.

Delaney watched Damon’s face transform. The grief of betrayal flashed across his features for a fraction of a second, only to be crushed beneath an avalanche of merciless, cold wrath.

He didn't scream. He didn't rage.

He simply pulled his phone from his pocket, his voice smooth as glass.