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

Delaney abandoned her damaged motorcycle and took the back alleys back toward Federal Hill, commandeering a taxi three blocks from the hotel. Her knuckles were bruised and rain dripped from her hair, her mind racing. If Vance Hollis was sending kill teams after her at two in the morning, it meant Noel was in just as much danger—because Preston couldn't afford for Noel to tell her brother the truth either.

When the taxi turned the corner onto Atwells Avenue, Delaney’s breath caught in her throat.

Parked bumper-to-bumper directly below her apartment windows were three armored black Cadillac Escalades, their engines idling quietly in the mist. Four men in dark wool overcoats stood stationed at the corners of the bakery awning, hands tucked inside their jackets where compact submachine guns hung on slings.

Delaney tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the front seat of the cab and slipped out before the car came to a full stop. She didn't use the front door. Instead, she scaled the rusted iron fire escape along the rear courtyard, moving like a cat over the wet grates until she reached her third-floor kitchen window.

Inside the small living room, Noel was sitting safe on the sofa, her blue dress draped neatly beside her. Standing in the center of the faded rug, looking painfully out of place in a three-thousand-dollar bespoke charcoal suit, was a tall man with razor-sharp cheekbones, dark piercing eyes, and a silver signet ring on his right hand.

Dante Ferraro.

Delaney slid the kitchen window up without a sound and stepped into the hallway, the stolen nine-millimeter pistol held low against her leg.

"You can put the gun down, Delaney," Dante said softly, without turning around. "If I wanted this apartment swept with lead, my men wouldn't be waiting downstairs in the rain."