The Mobster's Witness

Chapter One

The music was still pounding in my skull long after I stepped outside.

I stood beneath the flickering neon sign of the club, hugging my jacket around myself while the cold night air burned my overheated skin. My ears rang from four hours of bass-heavy music, shouting customers, and the constant metallic clatter of glasses being collected from tables.

For a few seconds, I simply stood there.

I was nineteen years old.

It was almost four in the morning.

And I was exhausted.

My feet hurt. My lower back ached. My makeup felt like a mask that had been glued to my face. Glitter clung stubbornly to my collarbone despite the shower I'd taken in the club's tiny dressing room.

I wanted nothing more than to go home.

Home.

The word almost made me laugh.

My apartment wasn't much of a home anymore.

It was a tiny, aging place on the fourth floor of a building where the elevator had stopped working three months ago. The wallpaper was peeling. The heating worked only when it felt like it. The kitchen had exactly two chairs, one of which was broken.

But it was mine.

Or, more accurately, it was my father's.

Everything belonged to him.

Except the debt.

That belonged to me now.

I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.

One missed call.

The hospital.

My heart immediately tightened.

I stared at the number for several seconds before calling back.

"Good morning," a tired voice answered.

"Hi. This is Lena Moretti. I saw that you called."

There was a brief pause.

"Yes, Lena. I'm sorry to call so late."

"It's okay."

I glanced at the dark street.

"Is my father—?"

"He's stable."

The air left my lungs.

"Okay."

I closed my eyes.

"That's good."

"He had a slight change in his oxygen levels earlier tonight. The doctors managed it, but we'd like you to come in tomorrow morning."

"Of course."

"And Lena?"

"Yes?"

"We should speak about the outstanding balance."

There it was.

The sentence I had started hearing everywhere.

Outstanding balance.

Medical expenses.

Payment deadline.

Insurance doesn't cover everything.

I swallowed.

"How much?"

The number she gave me made my stomach twist.

I had less than a tenth of it in my bank account.

"I'll pay it," I whispered.

"I know you're trying."

"I'm going to pay it."

Another pause.

"I believe you."

The call ended.

I lowered the phone.

For a moment, I simply stared at the screen.

Then I laughed.

It wasn't a happy laugh.

It was the kind that escaped when crying seemed like too much work.

I had spent the last six months pretending I could handle everything.

My father's accident.

His coma.

The hospital bills.

The apartment.

Food.

Electricity.

My university classes.

And now the club.

I had taken the job three months ago after realizing that working at a café wasn't going to be enough.

I didn't tell my friends.

I didn't tell anyone.

As far as everyone knew, I worked late shifts somewhere downtown.

Which wasn't exactly a lie.

It just wasn't the whole truth.

I looked up at the club.

The neon sign above me flickered.

VELVET ROOM.

The place looked glamorous from the outside.

Inside, everything was different.

Money flowed freely.

Men came in wearing expensive watches and suits that probably cost more than my apartment. They drank champagne like water and threw bills onto the stage as though money meant nothing.

To them, it meant nothing.

To me, every bill meant another hour of my father's life.

That was the only reason I kept coming back.

I adjusted the strap of my bag and started walking.

The city was nearly empty at this hour.

A few cars passed in the distance. A taxi sped through an intersection. Somewhere behind me, music still leaked from the club whenever the door opened.

I kept my head down.

I always did.

The less attention I attracted outside the club, the better.

I'd learned that quickly.

Men who smiled too much.

Men who thought buying a drink meant buying access to you.

Men who didn't understand the word no.

I'd learned how to recognize danger.

I'd learned to walk quickly.

I'd learned to keep my keys between my fingers.

I'd learned never to take the same route home two nights in a row.

Tonight, however, I was too tired to care.

I wanted my bed.

I turned down a narrow street.

The shortcut.

It would save me almost fifteen minutes.

The street was lined with old warehouses and abandoned buildings. During the day, delivery trucks used it, but at four in the morning, it was practically deserted.

My footsteps echoed.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I pulled my jacket tighter.

Then I heard a car.

I stopped.

A black SUV turned slowly into the street.

My heartbeat immediately changed.

The vehicle moved without headlights for several seconds before they suddenly came on.

I stepped closer to the side of the building.

The SUV stopped near the entrance of an abandoned warehouse.

I frowned.

Three men got out.

All wearing dark clothes.

One opened the rear door.

Someone was inside.

My first instinct was to leave.

Now.

But then I heard a voice.

"Please."

I froze.

A man was dragged from the vehicle.

He stumbled onto his knees.

"Please, Damien."

The name meant nothing to me.

Yet.

The man holding him grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him upright.

Another man stood several feet away.

He hadn't moved.

He was tall.

Very tall.

Even from where I stood, I could tell he was different from the others.

The other men seemed nervous around him.

He looked completely calm.

He wore a black suit.

No tie.

His shirt was open at the collar, revealing the hard line of his throat.

His hands were in his pockets.

The man on his knees began pleading again.

"I can get the money."

"You've had six months."

The man's voice carried across the empty street.

Cold.

Deep.

Emotionless.

"I swear, I can—"

"You've sworn before."

"I need another week."

"No."

The single word was quiet.

Final.

I should have walked away.

I knew that.

Every instinct inside me screamed to run.

But I couldn't move.

The man in the suit took one slow step forward.

"You knew the terms."

"I can fix this."

"You had your opportunity."

He pulled something from inside his jacket.

A gun.

My entire body went cold.

I covered my mouth with both hands.

The man on the ground started crying.

"No."

The gun was raised.

There was no hesitation.

No anger.

No shouting.

Just a single shot.

The sound exploded through the empty street.

I jumped backward.

My shoulder slammed against the wall.

The dead man's body collapsed.

And the man holding the gun looked toward me.

Our eyes met.

Everything stopped.

I couldn't breathe.

He couldn't have seen me.

He was too far away.

Maybe—

Then his head tilted slightly.

His eyes narrowed.

He had seen me.

Oh God.

I stumbled backward.

My shoe caught against something on the ground.

A metal can rolled across the pavement.

The sound seemed deafening.

One of the other men turned.

"Boss?"

The man in the suit didn't answer.

He was still looking directly at me.

Run.

My brain finally screamed the command my body had been refusing to obey.

I ran.

I didn't think.

I didn't look back.

I sprinted down the street, my bag bouncing against my hip, my shoes slamming against the pavement.

Behind me, I heard shouting.

"Get her!"

My lungs burned.

I ran faster.

I turned the corner.

Then another.

I nearly fell when I slipped on the wet pavement, caught myself against a wall, and kept going.

I didn't stop until I reached the main road.

Cars.

Lights.

People.

Safety.

I turned around.

Nothing.

No black SUV.

No men.

No gunman.

Nothing.

I bent over, trying to breathe.

My hands shook violently.

I pressed one against my chest.

My heart felt like it was trying to break through my ribs.

I had witnessed a murder.

A real murder.

Not something from television.

Not something in a movie.

A man had died three minutes ago.

And I had seen the person who killed him.

I pulled my phone from my purse.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

Call the police.

That was what I should do.

Immediately.

But then I remembered his eyes.

The absolute calm in them.

He hadn't looked frightened.

He hadn't looked guilty.

He had looked like killing someone was as ordinary as drinking coffee.

And he knew I had seen him.

My thumb moved toward the emergency number.

Then stopped.

What if he found me first?

What if he knew where I lived?

What if—

I looked down the street again.

Nothing.

I locked my phone.

I hated myself for it.

But I didn't call.

I started walking home.

The entire way, I kept looking over my shoulder.

I didn't know it yet, but the moment I stepped into that alley, my life had ended.

The life where I was simply Lena Moretti.

A nineteen-year-old girl trying to save her father.

A girl who worked nights.

A girl who dreamed about becoming a nurse someday.

That girl was gone.

Because somewhere behind me, in the darkness, a man named Damien De Luca had already made his decision.

He knew my face.

He knew I'd witnessed his murder.

And before the sun rose, he would know my name.