I Spoke Back To A Mafia Boss — The Next Morning, A Black Box Arrived At My Door

Part 1

The air inside the Obsidian Room always smelled heavily of seared Wagyu, truffle oil, and old money.

Located in the deepest, most exclusive pocket of TriBeCa, it was the kind of restaurant where the wait staff were expected to look like runway models and act like absolute ghosts.

I fit neither description.

I was a solid size 18 with thick curves, a sharp tongue, and a permanent ache in my lower back.

My manager, a draconian woman named Brenda, never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was a visual anomaly in their high-end establishment.

She would trail me like a hawk, hissing at me to tuck my blouse in and try to take up less space because we sold elegance instead of comfort.

But I took up space unapologetically because I had to.

Surviving double shifts on my feet while carrying trays of Baccarat crystal and dodging the wandering hands of Wall Street executives required a thick skin and an undeniable presence.

I was invisible when they wanted a servant, but glaringly obvious when they wanted someone to belittle.

It was a Tuesday night, entirely unremarkable, until the front doors opened and the atmospheric pressure in the dining room noticeably dropped.

Tony Moretti had arrived.

He didn’t just walk into a room, he possessed it entirely.

Dressed in a bespoke charcoal Brioni suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, Tony was the reputed head of the most organized, violently efficient crime syndicate on the Eastern Seaboard.

Rumors surrounding him were whispered in back alleys and FBI boardrooms alike.

He had supposedly dismantled the reigning Italian families by his thirtieth birthday, and he definitely didn’t leave loose ends.

Accompanied by his underboss Paul and two other men whose suits couldn’t completely hide the bulk of their shoulder holsters, Tony was led immediately to the secluded corner booth.

I was working table four, actively ignoring the agonizing throb in my swollen feet, when I saw Tyler, the newest and youngest busboy, approach Tony’s table.

Tyler was holding a tray of water glasses and an open bottle of Opus One Cabernet, and his hands were shaking so violently they looked like they were vibrating.

I widened my eyes, silently begging the kid to breathe and hold it together.

But Tyler didn’t breathe.

His foot caught the edge of a thick Persian rug, causing his wrist to buckle and the heavy silver tray to tip sideways.

A heavy splash of dark crimson wine rained directly onto the table, splashing violently across Tony Moretti’s knee and completely ruining the fine wool of his trousers.

The restaurant went dead silent instantly.

The faint jazz music playing through the overhead speakers suddenly felt completely inappropriate and entirely too loud.

Tyler dropped to his knees, hyperventilating as he choked out frantic apologies, begging the men for forgiveness.

Paul, standing near the edge of the booth, didn’t say a single word in response.

He simply reached inside his tailored jacket, his cold eyes locked entirely on the weeping teenager.

I didn’t even stop to think.

Instinct forged by years of protecting my younger siblings and surviving a city that chewed up the weak simply kicked in and took over my body.

I pushed my heavy frame through the dining room, stepping directly between Paul and the terrified boy cowering on the floor.

I ordered Tyler to get a mop, my voice cutting through the deadly silence like a sharp whip.

Tyler scrambled away instantly, leaving me standing completely alone in the crosshairs of New York’s most dangerous men.

I grabbed a thick linen napkin from the adjacent table and looked directly down at Tony Moretti.

I didn’t apologize, and I absolutely didn’t cower.

I just evaluated the dark stain on his expensive suit.

I offered to have the trousers dry cleaned, keeping my tone utterly flat and stripped of the fawning desperation he was undoubtedly used to hearing.

I told him bluntly that club soda wouldn’t fix wool, and we both knew he wasn’t waiting around in the VIP lounge in his boxers while I scrubbed them.

Paul stepped forward with his jaw tight, warning me to watch my mouth.

Tony held up a single manicured hand, causing Paul to freeze instantly and step back into the shadows.

Tony leaned back against the leather upholstery, completely ignoring the expensive wine seeping into his trousers.

His dark, calculating eyes swept slowly over my flushed face, the strands of brown hair escaping my messy bun, the heavy curve of my hips, and the absolute lack of terror in my posture.

He observed softly that I wasn’t shaking, his voice a rich, gravelly baritone that commanded absolute attention.

I replied that I worked sixty hours a week, and fear required a level of energy I simply didn’t have right now.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of Tony’s mouth as he leaned slightly forward.

He asked for my name, the heavy watch on his wrist catching the dim candlelight.

I told him it was Megan, shifting my weight to my less painful foot while refusing to break eye contact.

He murmured my name, noting that I seemed remarkably unfazed by standing directly in the line of fire.

I told him I was a big girl, and it took a hell of a lot more than a spilled drink and a dirty look to knock me off balance.

Tony stared at me for a long, silent moment while the rest of the restaurant held its collective breath.

Finally, his voice dropped an octave meant only for me, asking what I would want if I could have anything in the world right now.

I let out a short, cynical laugh, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow as I thought about my mountain of medical debt and the cheap mattress waiting for me in Brooklyn.

I joked dryly that I wanted a day off, turning my back on the billionaire syndicate boss and walking straight back to the kitchens.

Wednesday morning broke over Brooklyn with a gray, unforgiving light as my alarm clock shrieked at six o’clock.

Every joint in my body screamed in protest as I rolled over the sharp springs of my cheap mattress.

I stared at the ceiling, mentally calculating my bank balance and dreading the lunch shift.

A sharp, authoritative knock echoed through my tiny apartment, much too professional to be my landlord.

I pulled on a thick fleece robe and padded to the door, looking through the peephole to see a man in a sharp black suit.

I unlocked the deadbolt and cracked the door open.

The man handed me a sleek, heavy black box slightly larger than a passport and asked me to sign for it.

I scrawled my name on his digital tablet, and he walked away down the crumbling hallway without another word.

I locked the door and carried the immaculate matte black box to my cramped kitchen counter.

I pried the lid off, finding an envelope resting on a bed of dark velvet.

Beneath the envelope was a card.

I picked it up, feeling the heavy, cold, solid titanium in my palm.

It was an American Express Centurion card, the legendary black card, and embossed across the bottom in silver lettering was my name.

I stared at the limitless titanium card on my counter, realizing I had just tethered myself to the most dangerous man in New York.