MIA'S POV
"You're wasting your talent on celebrity gossip, Sterling."
I didn't look up from my laptop. Marcus Chen from the crime beat had been hovering by my desk for the past five minutes, probably working up to this exact conversation. Again.
"Thanks for the career advice, Chen. I'll file it right next to yesterday's."
"I'm serious." He perched on the edge of my desk, blocking my view of the screen. "That piece you did on the city council corruption last year? Before Henderson killed it? That was real journalism."
I finally met his eyes. "Henderson killed it because I couldn't prove the connection to Caruso's organization."
"Exactly." Marcus grinned like I'd just made his point. "You were this close. Why'd you drop it?"
Because my editor had threatened to fire me if I kept digging. Because I had rent to pay and student loans that didn't care about my journalistic integrity. Because I'd learned in foster care that sometimes you have to wait for the right moment instead of charging in blind.
I didn't say any of that.
"I didn't drop it. I'm just being patient."
Marcus laughed and walked away, but his words stuck with me through the rest of my assigned fluff piece about a celebrity chef opening a new restaurant. My fingers moved across the keyboard on autopilot while my mind wandered to the folder hidden in my desk drawer. Six months of research on Roman Caruso, compiled entirely on my own time.
The youngest don in the city's history. Twenty-eight years old. Took over after his father was assassinated in what everyone assumed was a rival family hit. But I'd found inconsistencies in the timeline, witnesses who'd disappeared, payoffs that didn't add up. Something about that assassination didn't sit right.
Everyone said Roman was different from his father. Cleaner and more legitimate. Working to transition the family businesses away from crime.
I'd heard that story before. Powerful men rebranding themselves while their hands stayed bloody. I'd grown up watching foster fathers play the respectable citizen while the bruises they left told a different story. Roman Caruso might fool everyone else, but I knew better.
My phone buzzed. A text from Lila, my roommate: "Still coming to Velvet tonight? You promised."
I'd been putting her off for weeks. Velvet was Roman's club, the kind of place where Manhattan's elite pretended they weren't rubbing shoulders with criminals. Lila loved the cocktails and the music. I'd been avoiding it because walking into Roman Caruso's territory felt too much like tempting fate.
But maybe that was exactly what I needed to do.
I texted back: "I'll be there."
Then I opened a new browser window and started researching Velvet's employment policies.
*****************
Two weeks later, I was balancing a tray of overpriced martinis and questioning every decision that had led me here.
The application process had been surprisingly easy. Velvet was always hiring waitstaff because the hours were brutal and the customers were worse. I'd used a fake name, Claire Monroe, and a borrowed Social Security number from a friend who owed me a favor. My background check came back clean because Claire Monroe had never investigated organized crime or pissed off any editors.
The job itself was exactly as terrible as I'd expected. My feet hurt, my fake smile was wearing thin, and I'd learned absolutely nothing useful about Roman Caruso.
He never came to the club. His managers ran the operation, professional and efficient, and if there was anything illegal happening, it was hidden behind closed doors I couldn't access. I'd spent two weeks serving drinks and collecting nothing but sore muscles and the growing certainty that I'd made a huge mistake.
"Table seven needs another round," my supervisor called out. "And they're getting impatient."
I grabbed the order and wove through the crowd, my waitress uniform drawing appreciative and unwanted attention. The music pounded through the speakers, some remix that made conversation impossible and thinking difficult. This was my last shift. I'd give it one more night, and if nothing happened, I'd cut my losses and figure out another way to....
The crowd parted near the entrance, and I saw him.
Roman Caruso walked into his club like he owned it, because he did. Three men flanked him, security or associates, I couldn't tell. But my attention locked on Roman himself.
He was taller than I expected from the photos. Dark hair, perfectly styled. A suit that probably cost more than my car. But it was his face that caught me. Sharp features, dark eyes that scanned the room with the kind of awareness that came from expecting danger everywhere.
Our eyes met across the crowded floor.
My breath caught. For a moment, the noise faded, and all I could process was the intensity of his stare. He saw me. Really saw me. Not Claire Monroe, invisible waitress. He was looking at me like he knew exactly who I was.
Impossible. I'd been careful.
He said something to the man beside him, then started walking in my direction.
My heart pounded against my ribs. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet stayed planted. Running would confirm whatever suspicion was forming behind those dark eyes.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, expensive and subtle.
"You're new." His voice was deeper than I expected, controlled.
"Two weeks," I managed, keeping my voice steady. "Still learning the ropes."
"What's your name?"
"Claire. Claire Monroe."
He repeated it slowly, and I watched his lips form each syllable like he was testing the weight of the lie. "Claire. Do you enjoy working here?"
"Yes, sir. It's a great opportunity."
His eyes never left my face. I felt exposed, like he was reading every truth I was trying to hide. The moment stretched too long, the silence between us loaded with everything unsaid.
"Come to my office after your shift," he said finally. "Third floor. Someone will show you the way."
It wasn't a request.
He walked away before I could respond, disappearing through a door marked PRIVATE with his security trailing behind him.
I stood frozen in the middle of the floor, my mind racing. He knew. Somehow, he knew. I should grab my purse and leave right now. I should….
"Claire!" My supervisor's sharp voice cut through my panic. "Table seven is still waiting."
I delivered the drinks on autopilot, my hands surprisingly steady despite the fear coursing through me. The rest of my shift passed in a blur. Every few minutes, I'd glance toward that private door, wondering what waited for me on the third floor.
When my shift finally ended at midnight, I stood in the employee break room staring at my phone. I could text Lila, tell her to call the police if she didn't hear from me in an hour. I could walk out the back exit and never come back.
But this was the closest I'd ever gotten to Roman Caruso. Whatever happened in that office, it was a door opening. Maybe the only one I'd get.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor. A man in a dark suit waited at the top, exactly as Roman had promised. He didn't speak, just gestured for me to follow.
The hallway was quieter than downstairs, insulated from the club's noise. Expensive art on the walls. Thick carpet that muffled our footsteps. The security guard stopped at a heavy wooden door and knocked twice.
"Come in."
I took a breath and stepped inside.
Roman stood at a floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me, hands in his pockets. The office was immaculate. Dark wood furniture, leather chairs, shelves lined with books that looked actually read rather than decorative.
He didn't turn around. "Close the door, Mia."
My blood turned cold.
"I know exactly who you are," he continued, his voice calm. "Mia Sterling. Twenty-four years old. Foster care kid from Queens. Graduated top of your class from Queens Community College. Currently writing fluff pieces for the Metropolitan Herald while researching me in your spare time."
He finally turned to face me, and his expression was unreadable.
"The question is, what am I going to do about it?"