Made & Marked By The Mafia

[Four]

SIENNA

Mr. Grayson called me to an empty table, making small, irrelevant talk. So I took this opportunity and asked him about the money.

“Mr. Grayson, I wanted to talk to you about something,” I began.

“Sure, what is it?”

“My salary for this week,” I hesitated as he looked up. “It’s the last day of the week, and I am late on the rent. I was hoping you could pay me today, at the end of the shift.”

There was a slight amusement in his eyes, and I hated how small I felt.

“Everyone gets paid tomorrow.” He smiled at the cost of my financial distress. “Why are you so special?”

I could not help but keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I don’t know, because I sometimes do free overtime?”

Grayson leaned in close, too close, and his nauseous woody cologne felt thick in the air like poison wrapped in citrus and musk. His hand grazed my waist in that deliberate way, like he was testing the limits of my silence.

“You know, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “I’ve always wondered how you’d taste when you’re not so full of attitude.”

I froze at his advance, and my fingers curled into fists at my sides. It took everything in me not to shove him right then and there. The other girls were still milling about in the back hallway, unaware of what was happening just a few feet away.

He leaned back, smiling like he’d done something charming. “I could make your life a lot easier, Sienna. Rent money. Better shifts. Maybe even a little vacation cash. Just say the word.”

There it was—the mask peeled back. He was not even trying to hide it anymore. Just straight-up sleaze, shameless and smug. So, I did the only thing I could think of.

I slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot, loud enough to pull every head in the hallway toward us. His face jerked to the side, his jaw clenched, and for one second, just one, he looked stunned. Then came the rage.

It twisted his features, turned that slick charm into something sharp and mean. “You’ll regret that,” he hissed with a low voice, trembling with fury. “You don’t touch me like that. Ever.”

“I don’t belong to you,” I snapped, choosing self-respect over rationality. “You want a woman you can buy? Try Craigslist. I’m not for sale.”

His eyes narrowed, and something unspoken passed between us. I knew it was a possible threat, but I did not care. I might have been poor, but I was not a slut. That was a line I did not want to cross.

I turned on my heel, adrenaline pumping through me like fire, and stalked off toward the floor. My hands still shook, but I made myself smile as I picked up a tray of drinks. The girls looked at me like I’d grown another head—some impressed, others terrified. Lily mouthed, Are you okay?

I didn’t answer.

I just nodded, focused on getting through the shift, and focused on not quitting on the spot even though every inch of me wanted to storm out and never look back.

But bills don’t pay themselves. And if I didn’t work today, I won’t eat tomorrow.

The shift passed in a haze of fake smiles and aching feet. Grayson, since the incident, has not crossed my path. I served cocktails to men who looked me up and down like I was part of the décor and ignored the looks the other waitresses gave me as if I’d just committed social suicide. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew: you don’t slap the boss.

Especially when the boss was vindictive and sleazy.

It was close to closing when two uniformed officers walked in.

At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Cops sometimes came by for coffee or to flirt with the girls. I was about to offer them a menu when they walked straight toward me.

“Sienna Cross?” one of them asked.

I blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re under arrest for theft.”

“What?” I stammered… because that had to be a joke. “Theft? Of what?”

The taller officer pulled out a pair of cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“No, no, no, wait,” I interrupted, stepping back with a pounding heart. “There’s been a mistake. I didn’t steal anything.”

“Security footage shows you removing cash from the office register during your shift,” the other one said like a parroted version. “Your boss lodged the complaint.”

“What footage?” I demanded. “I’ve never even been in the office. That’s Grayson’s room. We’re not allowed in there.”

“We’ll sort that out downtown. Turn around, Ms. Cross.”

My body moved before my brain caught up. I backed away again, but the cuffs were already on my wrists. The cold metal bit into my skin as the entire club seemed to stop moving.

Lily’s hand flew to her mouth. Beside her, Mindy whispered, “Oh my God.”

And Grayson…that asshole, Grayson stood at the bar, his arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile curling the corners of his mouth like a man who’d just checkmated his opponent.

It was then that the reality of my situation hit me like a hurricane.

I was screwed—royally, perpetually screwed.

The holding cell smelled like bleach and sweat, and the bench was cold and hard enough to bruise bone. I sat there, knees drawn up to my chest, staring at the wall like it might explain how my life had imploded in the span of six hours.

One slap.

One moment of choosing my dignity over silence. That’s all it took.

They said I was caught on camera. They said that I was seen taking money out of the register. The problem was, the only one who had access to that room… was Grayson. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. He’d planted the footage, faked or edited it. Or maybe just lied to the cops and waved his position around like a golden ticket.

He wanted revenge. And he got it.

I didn’t cry. Not then. Not when they fingerprinted me. Not when they took the mugshot. Not even when they called my name to process me.

But later, when I was finally alone—when the door closed behind the officer and the noise faded—I buried my head in my hands and let the tears come. Silent and slow, like the kind that had been waiting all day for the curtain to fall.

I wasn’t crying because I was scared.

I was crying because I was angry and helpless.

Because I’d been right. Grayson didn’t need to put his hands on me to ruin my life. All he needed was one opportunity and the right lie. And I’d handed him both.

I did not know how long I sat there, but eventually, the tears dried. My breathing slowed. And the anger settled into something worse.

Resolve.

Because no one was going to save me, not the cops or the girls at work, at the risk of losing their jobs. In all possibilities, I was going to die behind the bar.

XXX

I didn’t know what time it was—night, early morning, or whatever came after hopelessness. The lights in the station flickered overhead like even they were tired of this place. Then the metal door creaked open.

A cop stood in the doorway, looking down at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Get up. You’ve been bailed out.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

He let out a humorless snort. “Are you deaf now? I said, get your ass out. I don’t have all day.”

I pushed myself up, legs shaky, not from fear—just from the sheer emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours. “Who bailed me out?”

He rolled his eyes. “Do I look like your damn secretary?”

I walked to the release desk, collected my phone, my wallet, a few sad excuses for personal items, and stepped out into the cool, too-quiet night.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man in a black suit, standing straight like he was built from stone and not from flesh and blood. He moved toward me with quiet precision.

“Miss Cross,” he said smoothly, “please come with us.”

I glanced behind him. Two more men in matching suits flanked a black SUV like it was a damn presidential escort. All of them wore the same look—expressionless, unreadable, and just dangerous enough to make my spine twitch.

My arms crossed on instinct. “Did you bail me out?” I blurted.

He didn’t miss a beat. “The man who bailed you out? That would be my boss.”

Who the hell was the boss now?

He nodded toward the SUV. “If you’ll get in the car now.”

The door opened with an eerie kind of elegance. And though no one said it, the message was loud and clear: This wasn’t a request.