Stolen by the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

Lucy

There's a fire on TV.

For a moment, I'm unsure what I'm looking at. The TV is across the diner, hoisted up in the corner of the room, but when I squint, I see that the news is reporting on a massive factory fire. I glance out of the window, and as expected, I see the black cloud ominously rising in the air. The fabric factory is quite a few miles away, yet I can still smell it from here.

The thought of it sends me back to a place in my memory. Not a happy place. Not a place where I ever wanted to go again.

I'm a little girl again, staring out with my nose pressed against the car window, watching as the smoke billows from the shattered windows of my home. All around us, lights flash, red, blue, red, blue, and I squeeze my eyes tight, trying-despite everything-to pretend that I'm not here.

I was too young then to understand what happened. At least, to truly understand what happened. I heard lots of words when I climbed out of the car and took off running toward the flames. I could hear the policemen shouting at me to stop. And Nana begging me to come back. But above it all, I thought I could hear my parents calling my name.

Only, they couldn't have been. My parents perished in that fire. A gas leak, that's what the detectives said. Mom and Dad never saw it coming. When Mom flicked on the burner to start dinner, everything went up in flames. Sometimes I wonder what that must have felt like. Did they suffer? Did they feel anything at all? Or was God merciful enough to make it quick and painless?

I remember falling to my knees on the front lawn, sobbing as two firemen pulled me away from the flames. My lungs burned and my eyes burned but more than anything, there was the unshakeable hollowness of loss. I'd spent my entire life in that home. Every year on my birthday, Mom would line me up with the doorframe in the kitchen and carve a little mark above my head. Every Fourth of July, Dad would invite Nana and all of his family over, and at the end of the night, my cousins and I would sit in my bedroom and throw tiny little poppers at each other.

I lost my first tooth in that house. I saw my parents' first fight in that house. And just like that, it was all erased, wiped from existence.

There was only one man to blame.

The police ruled it an accident, something that could've happened to anyone, but that never sat right with me. Shady real-estate dealer Abram Konstantin received only a slap on the wrist. A "Promise you'll be more careful next time?" My parents were burned alive and the only person that was punished was me? Bullshit. Nana says that if I hold onto this for the rest of my life, it'll eat me alive.

But the part of me that longs for justice says, let it.

Let this ache and sorrow consume me and drive me to find the truth about what happened that day. Let it bring Abram to justice and show the world that the disgustingly wealthy can't be allowed to get away with things like this. I want to make an example of him, to show that every life is precious and throwing money around doesn't negate the negligence that killed my mom and dad.

But the realistic side of me has to let this go. I can't function if I spend all my life holding onto it. There's no future if I'm stuck in the past. So, like I always do, I turn away from the television and take a moment to clear my head.

This is why I hate slow days. When the regulars are in, I can distract myself. I can plaster on a welcoming smile and be the best waitress Rudy's Diner has ever seen. When it's empty, I find my mind wandering away, crafting daydreams of vengeance.

It's exhausting.

I turn back to my job, cleaning the counters and rubbing down the cash register. Dirt and grime are no match for the chemical concoction that Madeline and I have created. After growing tired of keeping seven different cleaning products around, we spent one night creating the perfect solution to clean every last inch of Rudy's. Our manager, Rudy Bradwell, was impressed enough not to yell at us for wasting most of his cleaning supplies while trying to find the right balance.

If Nana knew these were the kinds of things I get excited about, she would be proud. All her life, she cleaned up after everyone else. She babysat me while Mom and Dad worked. Dad always told me that she was the strongest women he knew, next to my mother, and I understand why.

Even now that I've moved back to town since graduation, Nana still likes to argue with me about taking care of her. I don't know how many times I've heard the phrase, "I'm old, not dead." She's as hardheaded as ever, but every now and then, I feel her gratitude shine through.

While I was away at school, Nana didn't have anyone to talk to or keep her company. Most of her old friends have passed away, and while I was gone, very rarely did anyone stop by to say hello. Only a handful of neighbors checked in on her, and I'm thankful that they were able to care for her while I was gone because I don't know what I would do if anything happened to Nana. After everyone that I've lost, I don't think I could survive another loved one leaving me.

"Are you ever not daydreaming?" a familiar voice asks from behind me.

I turn to see Madeline approaching with a handful of dirty dishes, a mischievous smile on her face. She's one of the most gorgeous women I've ever seen. Perfectly dyed blonde hair, perfectly white smile, and the kind of curves any woman would kill to have. It makes sense that she's a model when she's not on the clock at Rudy's.

"Sorry," I say, blushing. I hate that I have a tendency to get trapped in my head because I usually end up becoming much more reserved. People often read that as either standoffish or awkward, so I've been trying to live more in the moment and spend less time with my own thoughts. But old habits die hard, or whatever they say.

"You know, I was thinking about what you said last week."

"What did I say last week?" I ask. Madeline disappears for a moment to drop off the dishes, then steps back out into the diner, hands on her hips.

"You told me no guys were looking in your direction when I asked whether you were dating or not."

I self-consciously brush a lock of hair behind my ear and turn my attention towards the counter, wiping it down. I hate when Madeline puts on her matchmaker boots and tries to set me up with different guys. I mean, of course, I appreciate her offer and the fact that she tries to introduce me to new people, but her taste in guys doesn't match mine. She likes older, obscenely wealthy guys that have connections. Not exactly my type.