Bullies Tore the Mafia Boss’s Sister’s Dress—Then a Female Bartender Fought Back

Preston blinked down at the bartender, a slow, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his throat. He was six-foot-two, broad-shouldered from college rowing, and flanked by two private bodyguards in tailored charcoal suits who lingered near the velvet rope.

"Did the help just speak to me?" Preston asked the room, spreading his arms wide. "Pour the drinks, apron girl, before I have my father buy this hotel and turn your life into a tax write-off."

"You have three seconds to step back," Delaney said, her voice flat, calm, and completely devoid of adrenaline. "Two of them are already gone."

Preston’s smile vanished. He reached out to shove her shoulder with his open palm.

He never completed the motion. Delaney pivoted inside his reach, caught his outstretched thumb and index finger in a vise-like grip, and twisted downward while driving the heel of her palm into his elbow joint. A dry, sickening snap echoed off the glass walls before Preston’s knees hit the floor.

"Get her!" one of his bodyguards shouted, lunging past the VIP table.

Delaney didn't retreat. She kicked a heavy brass barstool sideways into the first guard’s shins, sending him crashing face-first into an ice bucket, then caught the second guard by the knot of his silk tie. With one fluid pull, she redirected his momentum straight down onto the edge of the mahogany table. The man went limp, groaning into a platter of spilled oysters.

Preston was shrieking now, cradling his rapidly swelling right wrist against his bespoke blazer.

"You’re dead!" he spat, tears of shock cutting tracks down his flushed cheeks. "Do you have any idea who my father is? You’re a dead woman!"

Delaney looked down at him without expression. She stepped over his legs, plucked the nearest bystander’s phone out of the air, and dropped it into a pitcher of tonic water.