In Love With The Mafia Kings Son

Chapter 12

That night, after dinner with her father, Letty found herself driven by an intense need for independence. Her life was being dictated by a DEA vendetta and a Mafia prince; she needed a source of income that was solely her own.

She took the bus to a small, brightly lit storefront tucked into a residential block: Trattoria Vecchia Napoli—Old Naples Tavern. The air outside was thick with the scent of garlic, basil, and roasting tomatoes.

The owner, Rocco Vitale, was exactly as expected: a short, powerfully built man in his late fifties, his hair thick and gray, his apron stained with the history of countless dinners. His voice was a booming, authentic Italian rumble.

Letty, feeling intensely awkward in her simple shirt and jeans, explained her need for evening hours. Rocco let her speak, but his gaze was assessing.

"Can you carry three plates and smile when you're tired?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Letty affirmed immediately, eager to please.

Rocco paused, squinting at her. "You look like you have the smarts for this, cara. But do you know Italian?"

Letty straightened, relief washing over her. She knew several European languages. "Sì, parlo un po'," she confirmed.

Rocco's stern face cracked into a slight smile. "Good! A voice like yours will charm the old men out of extra tips." He slapped his hand on the counter, making her jump. "You start this Wednesday. Six o'clock. Be on time. Now go." He pointed toward the door. "Too many customers, too little time. Get ready."

Letty walked out with the job, stunned by the abruptness. Her first shift was in two days.

The next two days established a chilling new rhythm.

Dante's proprietary claim over her transportation was now the new normal. Every morning, the black Shelby would be idling at the curb precisely at 8:30 AM. Letty would walk out, Dante would open the door for her with a possessive, silent command, and they would drive to Westwood in a tense, intimate silence broken only by the engine's roar.

Letty endured the school day, navigating the whispers and glances that followed her since the cafeteria incident. She was still careful to stick with Brenda and the scholarship students, but she was now forced to eat lunch at the apex predator’s table, under Dante's watchful, possessive eye. The consistency of Dante's control was alarming, but it was also a shield, insulating her from the chaos she feared.

Wednesday arrived, bringing the end of her DEA-Mafia insulation.

Letty rushed home from school, changed quickly, and took the bus back to the Trattoria Vecchia Napoli. She was dressed in the required waitress uniform: a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves neatly folded at the elbows, black dress pants, and comfortable, black non-slip shoes. Her hair was pulled securely up into a tight, practical bun.

Rocco immediately thrust a starched apron at her and introduced her to Gina, an older waitress with tired eyes and a kind, weary smile, who was tasked with training her.

"The job is easy," Gina explained, showing Letty how to balance the heavy plates. "Smile, move fast, and learn the specials."

They spent an hour reviewing the menus and the seating arrangements. The restaurant quickly filled with the warm, loud energy of authentic Italian dining.

Gina pulled Letty close during a lull, her voice low and serious. "One more thing, cara," she warned, adjusting Letty's apron. "Sometimes the customers can get a little... handsy."

Letty froze, the vulnerability feeling suddenly raw and frightening.

"Especially when they've had too much wine," Gina continued, her expression hardening with years of experience. "A pat on the butt, a hand on the arm. You just ignore them and move on. Don't make a scene. It’s best that way."

Letty nodded, her compliant nature kicking in, but the warning landed heavy on her shoulders.

Letty took to the job with the same quiet, intense focus she applied to her classes. Her intellect, the very quality that had landed her at Westwood, made her an unnaturally efficient waitress. She rarely had to write anything down; her photographic memory absorbed orders, table numbers, and menu changes with seamless ease. By the time the dinner rush started to settle down, she was already moving with the practiced fluidity of someone who had been there for months. Rocco, the gruff owner, was clearly impressed, offering brief, rare nods of approval as she whisked past him.

The rush finally subsided into a steady, manageable flow. Letty was polishing silverware near the service station, savoring the small victory of her successful first shift, when the atmosphere in the front of the restaurant shifted completely.

The door swung open, and the entire Rossi family strode in, bringing with them a wave of power that instantly eclipsed the restaurant's warm, boisterous energy.

Antonio Rossi , the Mafia King, led the way. He was massive, his former boxer’s physique barely contained by a suit that screamed bespoke wealth.

His face, though marked by age and stress, held the cold, pragmatic confidence of a man who owned the city.

Beside him walked Rosa Rossi , the Queen. She was striking, her beauty commanding, yet her eyes held a chilling sweetness, a deceptive patience that Gina had warned Letty was often far more dangerous than open cruelty.

Behind them were the twins: Isabella, aggressive and glamorous, and Dante, whose imposing 6'3" frame and muscular power dominated the space. Dante's eyes found Letty immediately, a flicker of surprise and proprietary interest passing over his face before he masked it with his usual smirk.

Rocco Vitale materialized from the kitchen, his face transforming instantly from that of a tired businessman into a mask of effusive, genuine welcome. He greeted them like family. Rocco moved straight to Rosa and Isabella, hugging both women warmly. He clapped Dante on the shoulder and gave Antonio a hug that was brief but laced with deep respect.

Rocco spoke rapid Italian to Antonio, who nodded once, his eyes surveying the room with clinical assessment. The entire restaurant seemed to breathe a little shallower. Rocco quickly led the family to the most discreet, private table in the back—the corner furthest from the windows.

Rocco hurried back to Letty, his breath coming quick and shallow. He grabbed her arm, his grip urgent and tight.

“Ascolta, cara,” he hissed in Italian, before switching to a rushed, low English. “They are very important customers, Nicolette. The most important. You are taking their table. You do not mess this up, understood? And listen to me—you do not charge them for their food. Nothing. No check. It is on the house, always on the house. Got it?”

Letty’s blood ran cold. The man her father was obsessively hunting was twenty feet away, and she was about to be his servant. The irony was fatal.

She nodded, her throat too dry to speak.

Rocco released her arm. “Va bene. Take a deep breath. Go.”

Letty forced herself to swallow, adjusted the tight bun on her head, and picked up her notepad. She was terrifyingly exposed in her white shirt and black pants, walking directly toward the men her father had sworn to destroy. She took one final, deep breath, centered her shaking hands, and walked toward the table.

Letty took a deep, centering breath, adjusted her white uniform shirt, and walked the few terrifying steps to the corner table. She approached the family, her notepad and pen held tightly in her trembling hands.

Antonio Rossi looked up. He was immense, his eyes—deep-set and sharp—surveying her with immediate, intense interest. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, slightly gravelly register that commanded attention without needing to shout, the sound of a man accustomed to absolute authority.

He smiled, a flicker of warmth that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. “Ciao, bella,” he greeted her in Italian. Then, in English, his voice dropping slightly, “What’s your name, little one?”

Letty swallowed. She forced the name out, her voice soft. “Nicolette.”

Isabella smirked, leaning back in her seat. “This is the smart girl I was telling you about, Daddy,” she said, her tone amused. “The one who knows French.”

Antonio looked back at Letty. “You know French? How well do you speak it?”

Letty’s natural instinct was to shrink and deny, but she momentarily glanced at Dante. He was watching her, his presence a silent wall of power. He gave her a soft smile and a slight, encouraging nod, a silent permission that instantly unlocked her compliance and her courage.

Letty turned back to Antonio, clearing her throat. She delivered her response in flawless, confident French: “Oui, je suis très courante, et je peux lire et écrire aussi.” (Yes, I am very fluent, and I can read and write, too.)

Antonio threw his head back and laughed—a rich, booming sound that quieted the tables around them.

“I have no f*****g clue what she said,” he declared with good-natured amusement, “but it sounded legit to me! How much do you charge for lessons?”

Letty hesitated. She was already being paid by the hour; she had no price for tutoring. "No charge, sir," she mumbled.

Antonio waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Never sell yourself short, bella,” he instructed, "How does fifty sound?"

Letty saw the game in his eyes; he wasn't taking no for an answer. She shrugged her small shoulders and said, “Sounds fine.”

Antonio shook his head firmly, now fully engaged in the lesson. “No, no, NEVER go with the first offer! You need to learn the three C’s of negotiation: Comfortable, Confident, Convincing. If you’re not comfortable, you won’t be confident. And if you’re not confident, you won’t be convincing. It's all about knowing your value, capisci? Let's try again. I offer fifty.”

Letty took a slow, deep breath, concentrating on the lesson, drawing strength from the new knowledge. She met Antonio's eyes. “That just won’t do,” she said, her voice clearer this time. “One hundred and fifth teen.”

Antonio smiled, a look of genuine pride on his face. “Better! How about one hundred?”

Letty didn't hesitate this time. She nodded. “Deal.”

“See, now you got it!” Antonio beamed. “Isa was right. You are smart. So, it’s a deal then: one hundred dollars an hour, teaching Isa how to speak French.”

Letty's eyes widened. One hundred dollars an hour? She had thought the negotiation was for a flat session rate. The sheer, effortless wealth and the casual value he placed on her time was staggering.

Rosa Rossi, who had been quietly watching the exchange, giggled softly. “Okay, Antonio, you’re overwhelming the poor girl. Let’s order. I’m starving.”

The rest of the family quickly placed their orders—requests that were easily memorized by Letty's mind. The whole time, Dante never took his eyes off of Letty, his proprietary smile now deep and satisfied.

Letty finished scribbling the last request, nodded, and said, "Your food will be ready soon," before spinning on her heel and walking back to the waitress stand with her heart racing and her mind reeling from the accidental, high-value employment she had just secured.