Grease was the first thing I remember about that night.

The Rossi estate did not look like a house. It looked like a fortress dressed in limestone and marble.

Wrought-iron gates twenty feet high opened smoothly as our motorcade pulled into a long, tree-lined driveway illuminated by soft landscape lighting. Armed guards stood at attention every fifty yards, their dark coats soaked by the persistent rain.

When the car stopped under the grand portico, doors flew open immediately.

“Don Dante,” a housekeeper in a crisp uniform greeted, bowing her head slightly. “The doctor is waiting in the study.”

Dante helped his father out of the car with surprisingly gentle hands. Arthur looked frail under the bright lights of the foyer, his dementia having settled back into a quiet, sleepy state.

“Take him upstairs, Mary,” Dante instructed the housekeeper. “Make sure he drinks some tea before sleep.”

“Yes, Don Dante.”

Dante turned to me. I was standing near the front door, feeling entirely absurd in my grease-stained waitress uniform, my hair dripping onto a rug that probably cost more than my entire four-year college tuition.

“Follow me,” he said, stepping toward a set of heavy double doors at the end of the hall.

I didn't move. “I’d rather wait here.”

Dante stopped, turning his head slowly to glare at me. “I didn't offer a choice, Miss Wells.”

I squeezed my hands into fists, forcing myself to walk behind him. His study smelled of expensive tobacco, dark leather, and old books. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, behind which hung a painting—a original oil piece from the Italian Renaissance.

My eyes drifted to the painting instantly. “A Caravaggio copy?” I murmured under my breath.

Dante paused in the act of pouring two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal carafe. He turned, an eyebrow raised. “It’s not a copy.”

My jaw dropped slightly. “That’s The Crowning with Thorns. The original is in Vienna.”

“The public copy is in Vienna,” Dante corrected smoothly, walking over and handing me a glass. “The original sits in my study.”

I stared at the glass of scotch in my hand, then at him. “Who are you?”

“Dante Rossi,” he said, taking a slow sip. “I control the transport, logistics, and private security for this entire region.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying you’re in the mafia,” I said, the truth finally slamming home like a physical blow. The armed guards, the armored SUVs, the respect the staff showed him, the art worth millions—it wasn't corporate money. It was mob money.

Dante didn't deny it. He simply took another sip of his drink, his dark eyes locked onto mine. “You are perceptive for a waitress.”

“I’m an art history student who works as a waitress to pay off debt,” I corrected sharply, setting the scotch down untouched on a glass table. “And I want to go home.”

Before Dante could answer, the door to the study burst open.

A tall, wire-thin man with slicked-back grey hair and a scar running down his throat stepped into the room, flanked by two heavy-set men in black suits.

“Dante,” the grey-haired man said, his voice grating like metal against glass. “I heard your senile old father wandered into traffic again. You’re letting personal mess interfere with business, nephew.”