Part 2: A bleeding woman in a ruined cream coat stumbled into her late-night shift, right up until five armed men arrived and bowed to the stranger.

The bell above the café door jingled, but it sounded like a death knell.

The man who had addressed her was tall, silver-haired, and possessed the kind of stillness that came from decades of living on razor-thin edges. Underneath his tailored wool coat, the bulge of a shoulder holster was unmistakable. Behind him, four younger men formed an impenetrable defensive perimeter, their eyes scanning the dark streets with tactical precision.

Carmela didn’t flinch. She stood tall, ignoring the blood soaking through her ruined cream coat.

"You took your sweet time, Matteo," she said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey, devoid of the breathless terror from ten minutes ago.

"The detour was unavoidable, Madam," Matteo replied, his head still slightly bowed. "The South Side exits were compromised. We sanitized the perimeter. The car is running."

"Good." Carmela turned back toward me. Her dark eyes, which had seemed so vulnerable under the flickering fluorescent tubes, were now as sharp and cold as polished obsidian. Yet, as she looked at me, the frost melted into something resembling genuine curiosity.

"Riley, was it?" she asked.

My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. I nodded once, clutching the dirty rag I’d used to wipe her blood off the counter.

"You held your ground against two armed hitters with nothing but a pot of scalding water and a smart mouth," Carmela said softly. "Most men twice your age would have wet themselves and pointed straight to the pantry."

"I have a little brother at home," I whispered, my voice finally finding its footing. "I don't have the luxury of dying, and I don't let trash walk all over my floor."

Matteo’s eyes flicked to me, a flicker of surprised respect crossing his hardened face.

Carmela reached out and closed my fingers around the black card with the gold lion. "Keep it on you. Always. When the wolves figure out who was driving that white sedan, they will come looking for loose ends. If you see so much as an unfamiliar shadow on your street, press speed dial one. Do you understand me?"

"I don't want any part of this," I said firmly, though my knees were shaking behind the steel counter. "I just want to finish my shift, get paid my nine dollars an hour, and pay for Toby’s medication."

Carmela smiled—a dangerous, elegant curve of the lips. "Darling, the moment you lied to Marcus Vane's trigger men, you stepped inside the ring. It’s no longer about what you want. It’s about surviving."

Before I could reply, Matteo draped a dark cashmere coat over her shoulders. Two guards moved forward with clinical efficiency, spraying down the counter where Carmela’s blood had dripped, wiping away every trace with chemical wipes that smelled of heavy industrial citrus. In less than sixty seconds, any physical proof that Madam Romano had ever stepped foot in the 24-hour diner was completely erased.

"Remember my face, Riley," Carmela said from the doorway, pausing under the buzzing neon light. "Because very soon, I may be the only thing keeping you and your brother alive."

The door clicked shut. The black SUVs melted into the Chicago mist like ghosts.

I stood alone in the silence, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. On the counter, beside my tip jar containing four crumpled dollar bills, sat the heavy metal business card.