The Shy Bartender Sat on the Mafia Boss's Lap During a Police Search—His Promise Changed Everything **They Shot Up My Bar Looking for Me—Three Hours Later, the Mafia Boss Was Waiting in My Apartment** The jazz stopped in the middle of a note.

“My name is Dante Rossi.”

I stared at the man standing in my dim living room. My brain struggled to process the name. Dante Rossi wasn’t just a name in New York; it was an urban legend. The head of the Rossi syndicate. A man who supposedly controlled half the ports on the eastern seaboard.

“And as of tonight, Elena, whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me.”

Before I could ask why a billionaire crime boss was bleeding on my cheap rug, a heavy, violent pounding echoed on my apartment door.

“NYPD! Open up!”

It was Detective Miller. The cop from the bar. He had followed the patrol car that brought me home.

Panic seized my chest. If a detective found Dante Rossi in my apartment, covered in blood, shortly after my workplace was shot to pieces, my life was over. I would be arrested, or worse, I’d become a target.

Dante didn’t flinch. His cold gray eyes locked onto mine. He moved with terrifying speed, crossing the room and dropping into the oversized velvet armchair in the corner of my living room.

“Come here,” he ordered softly.

“What? No, the police are—”

“Elena. Come here. Now.”

The sheer authority in his voice left no room for argument. I took two steps toward him. Dante grabbed my waist and pulled me directly down onto his lap.

I gasped, my hands instantly flying to his broad shoulders to steady myself. The smell of expensive sandalwood cologne, metallic blood, and gunpowder wrapped around me. His left arm locked around my waist like a steel band, pressing my back against his chest. His right hand slid beneath the fabric of my skirt, resting flat against my thigh.

I stiffened, terror spiking through me. But then I felt the cold, hard steel of a suppressed pistol resting in his palm, hidden perfectly from view beneath my skirt.

“You are going to invite him in,” Dante whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “You are going to act like a woman who just survived a shooting and called her boyfriend over for comfort. If you hesitate, or if you ask for help, I will put a bullet through the door before he even turns the handle. Understand?”

I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Say it,” he commanded softly.

“I understand,” I choked out.

“Good girl. Tell him it’s unlocked.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “It’s open!” I yelled, my voice trembling.

The door swung inward. Detective Miller stepped in, his hand resting on his holster. His eyes scanned the room, landing immediately on the armchair in the shadows.

“Miss Voss, I—” Miller stopped.

I forced myself to relax into Dante’s chest. I wrapped my arms around his neck, hiding his face in the curve of my shoulder. Dante’s hand tightened slightly on my thigh, the metal of the gun pressing into my skin as a warning.

“Detective,” I said, trying to make my breath sound ragged from passion rather than sheer terror. “I didn’t expect you to follow me. My… my boyfriend came over. I was upset about the bar. We were just…”

Miller looked uncomfortable, averting his eyes slightly. “I apologize for the intrusion. But after reviewing the security footage at Vespers, we noticed something. The men shooting up the bar weren't looking for you to kill you, Miss Voss. They were returning fire.”

Answer One. The men inside the bar weren't the aggressors.

But that opened a massive, gaping hole.

“Returning fire?” I asked, genuine shock bleeding into my voice.

“Yes,” Miller said, narrowing his eyes at the shadows. “A second group of men ambushed the club from the street. The men inside were defending the exits. We believe you are caught in the middle of a gang war. You need to come with me to the precinct.”

Dante’s thumb brushed against my knee. A silent command.

“I’m fine right here, Detective,” I said, my voice shaking. “My boyfriend will protect me.”

Miller stared for a long, uncomfortable moment. “If you say so. Lock your doors.”

He backed out and closed the door. We heard his heavy footsteps echo down the hall.

I instantly tried to scramble off Dante’s lap, but his arm remained clamped around my waist, holding me firmly in place.

“He lied to you,” Dante said, his voice a low rumble against my back.

“Let me go!” I demanded, pushing against his chest.

Dante released me, and I stumbled back, breathing heavily. He smoothly pocketed the gun and stood up, adjusting his ruined cuffs.

“Miller isn't a real cop,” Dante said coldly. “He’s on the payroll of the Falcone family. The men who shot up your bar from the street were Falcone’s hitmen. The men inside the bar—the ones you were hiding from—were my men. We were trying to extract you before Falcone got to you.”

“Why?” I cried, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. “I pour drinks! I don’t know any Falcones. I don’t know you!”

Dante stepped closer. He reached out, his long fingers brushing against my collarbone. I flinched, but he wasn't trying to hurt me. He caught the delicate silver necklace I had worn every day since I was a teenager.

“You don't know me, Elena,” Dante said, his eyes darkening with a sorrow I didn't understand. “But Falcone doesn't want you. He wants what you’re wearing.”

Dante pressed his thumb against the side of the silver pendant. A hidden clasp I never knew existed clicked open.

The pendant swung apart.