Claimed By the Boss (Sinful Mafia Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

LYRA

The sound of a glass shattering draws attention near the bar.

Before I can even process who did it and why it happened, my coworker catches my attention first.

“Table seventeen wants another bottle of Dom, and the guy in the grey suit asked if we serve caviar with a conscience,” Cindy mutters as she breezes past me, two martinis balanced in one hand.

Maison Royale is chaos dressed in crystal and candlelight. Jazz hums from the baby grand in the corner, the clink of cutlery and high heels layering over it. Manhattan glitters outside the floor-to-ceiling windows like a city showing off.

I dodge a stumbling drunk in Gucci loafers and slide into my section, tray perched on my shoulder.

The finance bros are already loud and laughing too hard at jokes that probably aren’t even a little bit funny, while loosening their ties like it’s a strip show.

I deliver their cocktails with a smile polished from years of practice.

“Gentlemen,” I say, setting the glasses down. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

One of them, slicked-back hair and Wall Street swagger, leans in. His breath reeks of gin and ego.

“How about your number?” he slurs.

“Not on the menu,” I reply, still smiling.

His buddies chuckle. He doesn’t.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he pushes, voice thick. “You want that big tip, don’t you?” He jerks his chin downward.

I keep my tray steady. “Anything else I can get for you?”

His smile drops. “Snooty bitch,” he mutters under his breath as I walk away.

I hear it, but I don’t stop. Can’t resist not rolling my eyes though.

The rest of the night blurs as orders come in, tables reset, and I expertly dodge many pairs of sweaty hands and veiled insults with the grace of a stage actress. But it comes to a full stop fifteen minutes later when I return to the bros with their steaks.

“This is too rare,” Mr. Slicked Hair snaps, poking at the plate like it offended him personally. “Also, your service sucks.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say coolly. “Would you like to speak with my manager?”

“Oh, don’t run off,” he sneers. “A girl like you should be able to handle a little criticism.”

He steps into my space. I don’t flinch, but I can feel eyes on us now. Nearby tables go quiet.

“Apologize,” he demands, eyes narrowed. “For your attitude.”

I blink once. “I offered to comp your dessert.”

He grabs my wrist.

My body reacts faster than my mind. I twist, pull back, but he holds tight. The tray wobbles in my other hand. Ice rattles.

“Let go,” I say under my breath.

“Don’t be a—”

Then he’s gone in a blink of an eye.

He’s ripped away so fast he stumbles into a chair. A stranger, who is tall, calm, and terrifyingly precise, has him by the collar. One second it’s chaos, the next it’s a chokehold.

The finance bro gasps. His feet scramble against the tile.

“The lady said no,” the man says. His voice is cool. Russian-accented. Deadly calm.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

The room goes silent. Even the pianist stops playing.

“Let’s not make a scene,” he adds.

It’s far too late for that.

The mysterious man releases him. Mr. Slicked Hair collapses into his seat, choking and red-faced. His friends grab their coats and drag him out, tossing a wad of cash on the table like that makes it better.

I stand there frozen, my heart racing from the action that unfolded so quickly in front of me.

The man straightens his cufflinks, as if he didn’t just choke someone in the middle of a Michelin-starred dining room and walks back to his table without looking at me.

That’s when I notice his suit. It’s midnight black and impeccably tailored to compliment his obviously very fit stature. He sits across from an older man eating steak like nothing happened.

I don’t know whether to be shaken or impressed.

I exhale hard and head straight to the service station. My hands are shaking, but I keep moving and grab a water pitcher, looking to see if anyone in my range of view needs a refill. I need something to do. Anything.

Cindy rounds the corner, eyes wide. “What the hell just happened?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, even though my pulse is still sprinting. “Handled.”

“You sure? Because Mr. Cold War over there looked like he was about to snap that guy in half.”

I glance across the dining room. He’s back at his table, calm as ever, sipping red wine like nothing happened. His companion, who is older with salt-and-pepper hair, doesn’t even glance up. It’s like this is normal for them.

And maybe it is. Rich people could lead impossibly weird lifestyles.

I refill a couple of water glasses and loop back around my section. The table where it all went down is now cleared and reset, thanks to a busboy who saw it all go down with wide eyes and fast hands. The tip the bros left is still sitting there, a fat wad of twenties.

And a business card.

I pocket the card without thinking, planning to toss it later. But as I pass the man’s table, something makes me slow.

His eyes lift to mine.

Cool. Assessing. Striking.

I hesitate for half a breath, then cross to his table, ignoring the way my heart thumps harder with every step.

“Hi,” I say quietly. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say thank you.”

He watches me for a beat, then nods. “You’re welcome.”

The accent is real. Russian. Clipped, elegant. He could probably kill someone with a dinner knife and not wrinkle his suit.

“You didn’t have to step in,” I add.

He raises a brow. “Didn’t I?”

I bite back a smile. “I had it under control.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Of course you did.”

A pause stretches between us. He glances at the name tag on my apron.

“Lyra,” he says, slow and precise, like he’s tasting the word.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Damien,” he replies, offering his hand.

I take it. His grip is firm, but not aggressive. Just... solid. “Nice to meet you, Damien. Even if the introduction was a bit dramatic.”

“Memorable,” he corrects.

I laugh. A real one this time. The tight coil in my chest loosens just a little.

I glance at his companion, who is still ignoring us, and then back to Damien.

“Is your accent Russian?” I ask, regretting it instantly.

He doesn’t seem to mind. “It is. I was born in Moscow.”

“It suits you.”

That almost-smile again. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.”

Another pause. This one comfortable, somehow.

“I should get back to work,” I say, even though I kind of don’t want to.

He nods once. “You probably should.”

I turn, walking away quickly before I can say something stupid. But I feel his eyes on me the whole way.

The rush picks up again, but I move through it on autopilot. I’m all smiles, grace under pressure, gliding between tables like I haven’t just had my wrist grabbed and nearly lost my job for throwing a drink in someone’s face, which I didn’t do, but very nearly did.

I finally glance back toward Damien’s table.

It’s empty. My chest drops in unexpected disappointment.

I approach the table, clearing glasses and checking for the bill. It’s been paid, of course. And the tip quite generous. Enough to make my stomach clench.

Then I see it again. The card.

This time, I actually look.

Damien Morozov

CEO, Integrated Solutions

I blink.

No way.

Integrated Solutions. That Integrated Solutions. Cybersecurity firm with contracts in half the Fortune 500. The company I applied to last week. The one I’ve dreamed of working at since college.

The one I’m interviewing at tomorrow for fuck’s sake.

My hands go cold.

Well, shit.