By the time I dropped a fork in front of Dominic Vance, half the restaurant had already decided I was dead. At Leon’s on the Magnificent Mile, everyone knew the rule. Serve Chicago’s most feared mafia boss quietly.

By 11:30 PM, the rain over Michigan Avenue had turned into an icy downpour.

I pushed through the service exit of Leon’s with my canvas tote bag slung over my shoulder and thirty-two dollars in cash tucked into my pocket. My shift had ended in an awkward, suffocating silence; nobody wanted to talk to the waitress who had earned the personal attention of a mob boss.

As I stepped onto the wet sidewalk, a black Mercedes Maybach pulled up to the curb.

The rear window rolled down with a soft hiss, revealing Scar-Eyebrow in the driver's seat and Dominic Vance sitting in the back, bathed in the amber glow of the interior leather.

"Get in, Daisy," Dominic said.

I pulled my thin cardigan tighter around my shivering frame. "I take the L train."

"The Red Line has a two-hour track delay at Grand, and your shoes are already soaked through," Dominic replied, not even looking up from his tablet. "Get in the car before you catch pneumonia."

"Is that a threat or an invitation?"

Dominic finally lifted his head. His sharp gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made the cold rain feel irrelevant. "It's common sense. You like common sense, don't you?"

Against every survival instinct I possessed, I opened the door and climbed inside. The blast of climate-controlled warmth was intoxicating. The door clicked shut with a heavy, soundproof thud, isolating us from the noise of the city.

Dominic gestured to a silver thermos on the center console. "Hot tea. Peppermint. Drink it."

I poured a cup with trembling hands, sipping the warm liquid while keeping my back pressed against the leather door. "What do you want, Mr. Vance?"

"Three thousand four hundred dollars," Dominic stated plainly.

I choked on my tea. "Excuse me?"

"That’s the exact amount owed on the eviction warrant for 814 West Huron Street," he said, pulling a manila folder from beside him. "Your landlord is a slumlord named Sal Marcone. He charges twenty percent weekly compounding interest on overdue leases."

"Did you run a background check on me while I was serving your short ribs?" I demanded, anger flaring through my exhaustion.

"I run background checks on everyone who stands within arm's reach of my throat," Dominic replied smoothly. "Especially women who tell me expensive and good aren't the same thing."

He slid a heavy linen envelope onto the armrest between us.

"Inside is four thousand dollars in cashier's checks made out to the property court," Dominic said. "Your mother's lease is cleared through next summer."

I stared at the envelope, my heart hammering. The temptation was enormous—it was relief in a paper sleeve. But my pride reared its head like a wild mustang.

"I don't take handouts from gangsters," I said, my voice sharp. "I work for what I have."

Dominic's lips curved into that dangerous, microscopic smile. "I'm not giving you a handout, Daisy. I'm hiring you."

"For what? I'm a waitress."

"I host private diplomatic and corporate dinners at my Gold Coast residence four nights a week," Dominic said, leaning closer until I could smell the cedarwood and tobacco clinging to his jacket. "I need someone who isn't terrified of powerful men. Someone who speaks the truth, notices every detail, and won't poison my wine for a bribe. You work three nights a week. You manage the staff, coordinate the security manifests, and keep your sharp mouth working for me."

"And if I say no?"

Dominic looked out the rain-streaked window. "Then Marcone’s enforcers change the locks on your mother's apartment at 8:00 AM tomorrow morning, and you spend tomorrow night sleeping on a subway bench with your brother."

He turned back to me. "What’s it going to be, Daisy Bennett?"

I looked at the envelope. I thought of my mother’s fragile hands and Noah’s textbook receipts.

"I take the job," I whispered. "On one condition."

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "You're negotiating?"

"You never call me 'kid,' and you never bring violence into my mother's home."