Chapter 1 - The Waitress Who Made the Mafia Boss Follow
The most dangerous man in Chicago had just surrendered control to a waitress.
And somehow, that frightened his men more than if I'd pulled a gun.
Vincent Graham's hand remained against my shoulder blade as we swept across the Continental's polished floor.
One.
Two.
Three.
The orchestra thundered around us.
His first turn had been rough, his weight too far forward, his grip too tight.
But now he was listening.
Not to my voice.
To the music.
"You're improving," I said.
His dark eyes narrowed.
"Careful, sweetheart."
"Stop threatening the woman keeping you upright."
Something unexpected happened.
He laughed.
A genuine laugh.
From the edge of the dance floor, Levi Garrison looked as though someone had overturned a table.
Vincent Graham did not laugh.
Not in public.
Not with strangers.
And certainly not while being corrected by an employee.
I guided us through another turn.
His hand settled more gently against my back.
"Where did you learn this?" he asked.
"Somewhere with better manners."
His mouth twitched.
"You're determined to insult me."
"I'm determined not to let you step on my feet."
"Are they expensive?"
"Only to me."
For a moment, his expression changed.
Then the orchestra reached its final sweeping passage.
I turned beneath his raised arm.
The room spun.
Crystal chandeliers.
Red leather booths.
Men with expensive watches.
Women holding unfinished champagne.
And Vincent Graham watching me as though he'd forgotten anyone else existed.
The music ended.
Silence.
Then applause erupted.
I stepped away immediately.
My heart pounded.
For ninety seconds, I'd forgotten who he was.
Now I remembered.
Vincent was forty-one, the owner of legitimate hotels and transport companies, and the reputed leader of one of Chicago's most feared criminal organizations.
I was a waitress whose rent was overdue.
"I should get back to work," I whispered.
Vincent didn't move.
"Your name."
"Katie Young."
His face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
"Young?"
"Yes."
He studied me.
"Was your father named Michael Young?"
My stomach tightened.
My father had died two years earlier after a long illness.
"How do you know my father?"
Vincent opened his mouth.
Then Levi approached.
"Boss, we need to talk."
"Not now."
Levi lowered his voice.
"It's about the Young account."
Vincent went completely still.
I looked between them.
"What account?"
Levi's eyes shifted toward me.
For a moment, genuine fear crossed his face.
Vincent noticed.
His voice became dangerously quiet.
"Levi, what did you do?"
Levi swallowed.
"Nothing you didn't authorize."
Vincent stepped closer.
"Then explain why Michael Young's daughter is carrying drinks in my club."
Levi looked away.
And the answer came from the elderly bandleader.
George had stopped beside us, his baton trembling in his hand.
"Because someone stole everything her father left her."
I stared at him.
"George?"
The old musician looked at Vincent.
May you like
Then whispered:
"And the man who signed the transfer was sitting at your table tonight."
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