Part 1: The Mafia Boss Seized Her Wrist—Until He Discovered Who She Really Was

PART 1

The Mafia Boss Seized Her Wrist—Until He Discovered Who She Really Was

I had barely finished changing out of my bloodstained scrubs when I pushed through the heavy door of Rosso, desperate to escape the downpour that had turned Manhattan streets into rivers.

November had arrived with a vengeance, and I had spent the last 12 hours at the emergency veterinary clinic trying to save a golden retriever that had been hit by a taxi. We lost him 20 minutes before my shift ended.

The jeans and sweater I had pulled on felt wrong somehow, too normal for a night when nothing felt normal. The warmth inside the Italian bar hit me like a wall. Steam rose from my soaked burgundy jacket as I stood dripping on the polished hardwood floor. The place was nearly empty, with only a handful of people scattered across the leather booths that lined the brick walls. Soft jazz played from speakers I could not see, mixing with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.

I made my way to the bar, peeling off my jacket and draping it over the stool beside me. My

fingers were still trembling slightly. The adrenaline from the failed surgery refused to fade. Two months in this city, 2 months since I had left Boston and a relationship that had slowly suffocated me, and I still was not used to the relentless pace of working in Manhattan.

The bartender appeared. His white shirt was crisp despite the late hour, and he looked me over with the practiced neutrality of someone who had seen everything.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Hot chocolate,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended, “with a shot of whiskey.”

He nodded once and disappeared.

I pressed my palms against the cool mahogany of the bar, trying to ground myself. The golden retriever’s owner had been a little girl, maybe 7 years old. The way she had screamed when I came out to deliver the news would haunt me for weeks.

My hand

drifted to the small silver necklace at my throat, the tiny pendant shaped like half of a heart. I had worn it every day for 15 years. A habit so ingrained I barely noticed it anymore. Val had given it to me the night before I was adopted, pressing the matching half into my palm with tears streaming down her face.

“So you never forget me,” she had whispered.

I never did forget.

But I had lost her anyway.