“I Told You to Move!” the Arrogant Woman Slapped the Pregnant Waitress—Unaware the Mafia Boss Was Watching

The rhythmic, wet *whoosh-whoosh-whoosh* of a tiny heart filled the quiet bedroom.

Adriana let out a shuddering, broken breath, her head dropping back into the pillows as the sound washed over her like cool water.

Dr. Vance adjusted the portable ultrasound wand, his eyes narrowed at the gray-and-white screen propped on the bedside table. “Heart rate is 142 beats per minute. Strong. Regular.” He turned the dial, taking measurements. “Cervix is closed. The placental wall is intact. The pain you felt was a severe uterine spasm caused by the physical impact and a surge of acute adrenaline.”

Vance lifted his head, glaring sharply over his half-moon spectacles—first at Adriana, then at Damon.

“She is severely malnourished,” Vance said bluntly. “She’s down at least fifteen pounds from where an eight-month pregnancy should sit. Mild anemia, border-line dehydration, and systemic exhaustion. If she had taken another week of twelve-hour shifts on her feet, the child would have arrived prematurely, and in her condition, neither of them might have survived the labor.”

The words struck Damon like physical blows. He didn't blink, but the veins along his neck stood out against his skin.

“What does she need?” Damon asked.

“Complete bed rest for the next three weeks,” Vance replied, wiping the conductive gel from Adriana’s belly with a warm towel. “High-protein fluids via IV for the next twenty-four hours to stabilize her electrolytes. Iron supplements. And quiet. Absolute, uninterrupted quiet.”

Vance packed his gear into the cases and snapped the latches shut. He turned to Damon, lowering his voice. “I’ve given her a mild sedative—safe for the child, but it will let her sleep for ten hours straight. Don't move her tonight. Her nervous system is stretched to a thread.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Damon said quietly. “There’s an envelope for you on the hall console.”

“I don't want your money for this, Damon,” the doctor said, meeting his gaze evenly. “Eli Voss saved my son’s life three years ago when the Moretti boys tried to torch his pharmacy. If you need anything for her—any hour of the day or night—you call my personal line.”

Vance bowed his head to Adriana and slipped silently out of the room.

Within five minutes, the sedative took hold. Adriana’s breathing deepened, the tight, defensive tension in her shoulders slowly melting away into the heavy mattress. Her fingers remained loosely curled around Eli’s watch, her thumb resting against the scratched glass even in sleep.

Damon pulled a heavy cashmere throw over her, tucking it beneath her chin.

He stood over her for a long moment, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, then turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the heavy soundproof door until only a hairsbreadth remained open.

In the outer sitting room, Luc was waiting. He had already shed his rain-drenched overcoat and was standing by the wet bar, methodically wiping down a nine-millimeter pistol with an oily rag.

“Celeste Marquetti?” Damon asked, his tone dropping below freezing.

“Dumped her on her father’s front lawn in Brookline,” Luc replied without looking up. “Told her old man that if she sets foot east of Kenmore Square again, we won't bother with financial foreclosure. We’ll just remove her vocal cords.”

“Good. What about the restaurant staff?”

“Gave them all three months’ hazard pay and sworn non-disclosure agreements,” Luc said. “The maitre d’ who hired her under the name Anna Bell is downstairs in the basement pantry. He’s shaking like a leaf. Swears he didn't know who she was. Just thought she was an illegal hire looking for cash under the table.”

“Let him keep his job,” Damon said, walking over to the window that looked out over the glittering spires of the city. “He gave her shelter, even if he didn't know it. But double his salary and put him on the supply warehouse run. I want St. Cordova closed for renovations starting tomorrow morning.”

Luc paused his cleaning, his dark eyes narrowing. “Closed? St. Cordova generates eighty grand a weekend.”

“Close it,” Damon repeated. “Adriana was humiliated on that floor. I will not have my people pouring champagne where my brother’s wife was struck down.”

Luc grunted, accepting the decree. He slid the magazine back into his weapon with a sharp *clack*. “And what about the shadow, boss? The broken compass?”

Damon’s reflection in the glass was cold, pale, and merciless. “Eli was killed by a coordinated hit. The timing on Route 1 was too clean. The convoy route was changed forty minutes before we left the downtown club. Only four people had that route.”

“Three now,” Luc noted quietly. “Since Eli took the bullets.”

“Yes,” Damon said, his fists clenching at his sides. “Which leaves you, me, and Marco Vance.”

Luc didn't flinch, though his eyes widened slightly. Marco Vance was Richard Vance’s second cousin, but more importantly, he had run the North End bookmaking and distribution network for Damon for seven years. He was an elder statesman of the family, a man who had sat at the head of the table during Damon’s rise.

“Marco’s been pushing to take over the waterfront supply routes since Eli died,” Luc said slowly, piecing the puzzle together. “He always hated that Eli had your ear. He thought Eli was a street thug from Southie who didn't respect the old-school bloodlines.”

“And Marco’s nephew runs the scrap yards in Lynn,” Damon added, the pieces falling into place with terrifying clarity. “The very place where the broken-compass insignias were stamped onto the spent shells we pulled from the town car’s engine block.”

Damon turned away from the window. The city lights flickered against the scar across his eyebrow.

“Have Marco brought to the safe house in Dedham,” Damon ordered. “Quietly. Don't let his captains know he’s being moved. Tell him we have an emergency sit-down regarding the Marquetti debt call.”

“And if he runs?”

Damon reached into his jacket, pulled out his own sidearm, checked the chamber, and slid it back into the leather.