Don’s Queen (Five Borough Mafia #5)

Chapter 1

IZZY

If there is one thing I have learned about working at Notte Bianca, it is that the night always starts quietly and then turns chaotic before you even notice.

By six-thirty the dining room is already half-full. By seven it is completely packed, every table occupied, the bar humming with conversation, the kitchen shouting orders so fast that the words blur together.

A quick look around and I can see that polished glow it always has in the evening: warm lights over white tablecloths, polished glasses, expensive wine bottles lined up behind the bar like trophies.

The kind of place people save up to visit for birthdays or anniversaries, or the kind of place people with more money than sense visit twice a week just because they can.

My job as the head waiter is to make sure none of those people notice how close the whole thing is to falling apart.

Head waiter sounds glamorous when you say it out loud.

But in practice, it mostly means running around all night fixing problems nobody else has time to deal with.

I handle complaints, smooth over misunderstandings, juggle reservations when people show up early or late or with extra guests they forgot to mention.

I step in when a table is unhappy with their food, or when the kitchen falls behind, or when someone has had a little too much wine and starts getting difficult.

Basically everything a restaurant manager is supposed to do.

Because Dickhead Donald sure as fuck ain’t gonna.

I weave between tables with the same quick rhythm I’ve had for years now, the tray balanced easily on one hand as I scan the room for problems. It’s a skill you learn after long enough in this job: you stop looking at people individually and start reading the room like a pattern.

“Table twelve needs another bottle of Barolo,” Erin calls as she passes me on her way to the kitchen.

“Already grabbing it.”

Erin flashes me a grateful smile and disappears through the swinging doors.

I grab the bottle from the rack behind the service station and head toward the table.

The couple sitting there looks like they belong in a luxury watch advertisement.

The man is middle-aged, well dressed, already halfway through his current glass.

The woman is scrolling through her phone with the bored expression of someone who has done this dinner routine a thousand times before.

I pour their wine, keep the smile in place, make polite small talk for exactly fifteen seconds, and excuse myself before they can invent something else to need.

Problem solved.

One down.

About fifty more to go before the night is over.

As I cross the room again, Savannah nearly runs into me while rushing out of the kitchen.

“Table six says the risotto is wrong,” she says under her breath.

“Wrong, how?”

“Too creamy.” She blows out a tired breath.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my nerves. “That’s… literally how risotto works.”

“Tell them that,” Savannah says, already moving again.

I sigh and head toward the table.

Five minutes later the risotto is “perfect” and the couple thanks me for my excellent service. Apparently, all it took was explaining the dish in a calm voice and offering to replace it if they still weren’t satisfied.

People mostly just want to feel listened to.

It’s amazing how far knowing that gets you.

When I reach the bar, Amber is already sliding a finished drink onto my tray. “Table eight,” she says.

I pick up the glass. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t I know it,” she says, smirking slightly.

Amber has been working here almost as long as I have. She’s the youngest of us, but she handles the bar like she was born behind it. Fast hands, sharp memory, and a sense for what people want before they even ask for it.

I hand off the drink to the right table and come back toward the bar just as Rose is finishing adjusting the flower arrangement near the counter.

She looks up when she sees me. “Rough night?”

“The usual,” I say.

Which is true. Busy nights are normal here.

Notte Bianca built its reputation on being one of the few Italian restaurants in the city that manages to feel both elegant and relaxed at the same time.

People come here because the food is good, the wine list is better, and the atmosphere makes them feel like they’re somewhere important.

They don’t see the chaos that happens behind the scenes to keep that illusion alive.

Rose returns to her flowers, humming quietly to herself. Amber shakes a cocktail shaker with practiced precision. Somewhere behind me, a burst of laughter rises from one of the tables.

For a moment, everything feels balanced.

It rarely lasts.

I circle the dining room again, checking on the other servers. Erin has recovered from the wine emergency. Savannah disappears back into the kitchen, already shouting something about gnocchi to the chef. Amber has three new drink orders lined up.

Donald is still nowhere to be seen.

Which doesn’t surprise me.

On paper, Donald manages the restaurant. In reality, he mostly manages to avoid doing any actual work. When things get busy, he vanishes into the office, leaving the rest of us to handle the floor ourselves.

It used to bother me more when I first started working here. These days, I’ve accepted it the way you accept bad weather. Complaining about it won’t change anything, and at the end of the night the restaurant still needs to run.

I reach the welcome desk again and finally allow myself a small breath.

Then a voice behind me says quietly,

“Excuse me.”

The sound hits me hard, forcing my brain to stop working for a second. I know that voice. It is deep and calm and unmistakable. The kind of voice that makes people turn their heads in a crowded room. I have even heard it in my dreams for seven years.

Slowly, I turn around.

Niccolò Neri stands in front of the host stand.

Even after a year of seeing him regularly, the sight of him still has the same strange effect on me.

He is tall without trying to look imposing, dressed in one of those perfectly tailored suits that make you immediately aware you are standing in the presence of someone who belongs to a very different world than yours.

Niccolò Neri.

The Don of the Bronx.

Yes, I know about that part.

When the Five Families of New York started using Notte Bianca as their regular dinner spot last year, the entire staff noticed, even though their real identities are a whispered secret few are privy to.

You don’t have to be deeply involved in organized crime to recognize some of the most powerful men in the city when they walk into your restaurant together.

But none of that is why his voice has been stuck in my head for seven years.

“Good evening,” I say, keeping my tone perfectly professional. My heart is beating so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Your party is already here.”

His gaze rests on me for a brief moment, and then nods. “Thank you.”

God. That voice.

My mind betrays me instantly, replaying the words I remember from seven years ago as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday.

Call me Nico.

I shove the memory aside like I’ve always done. “Right this way,” I say.

I lead him across the dining room toward the table reserved for the Dons.

The others are already there. Giovanni Gallo is leaning back in his chair with a glass of bourbon, looking amused by something Matteo Moretti just said. Moretti himself looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world. Two chairs are still empty, I realize.

Lucchese and Romano haven’t arrived yet.

I pull out the chair at the head of the table. “Your table, Mr. Neri.”

He pauses beside me.

Up close he smells faintly of expensive cologne and the cold air from outside.

“Thank you,” he says.

I give him a polite smile.

“Of course.”

I turn and walk away before my composure has time to crack.

Seven years.

Seven years since the only time Niccolò Neri ever spoke to me outside this restaurant.

Seven years since the only night in my life I allowed myself to believe something impossible might happen.

I was nineteen back then. Working two part-time jobs and trying to help my mother keep our tiny apartment afloat after my father disappeared. Life was already difficult enough without adding complicated men into the mix. Especially men like Niccolò Neri.

Because men like him do not remember girls like me.

He’s nearly twice my age. He wears suits that cost more than everything I own combined. He runs an entire borough of New York City, if the rumors are even half true.

A man like that could have any woman he wants. And probably does. Repeatedly. Which is exactly why I forced myself to forget him a long time ago. Or at least tried to.

Besides, he’s mafia. Like hell I’m getting mixed up in that world. It isn’t just my life on the line anymore.

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I pull it out quickly and glance at the screen.

A message from my sitter. can’t stay late 2nite after all!!! can u b back by 00?? :prayer_hands:

My stomach sinks.

Midnight. That gives me barely three hours before I need to leave. No way I can wrap it up by then.

I start typing a quick reply.

Then Donald’s voice cuts in beside me.

“Table thirty-four is leaving.”

I look up slowly. “And?”

“And are you going to clean it or what?”

I force a tight smile. “Of course.”

I pocket my phone and head toward the table.

The dishes are still warm when I start clearing them. Plates stacked, glasses gathered, napkins folded. I balance everything on a tray and carry it back toward the bar.

Amber takes one look at my face.“ Uh-oh. That’s your mom face,” she says immediately.

“I do not have a mom face.”

“You absolutely do,” she argues.

Rose glances over from the flowers. “What’s wrong?”

“My sitter is bailing,” I huff. “Again. Goddamn college students.”

Amber doesn’t hesitate. “Then go home early.”

“I can’t just leave you guys.”

Amber shakes her head.“Yes, you can.”

“I hate leaving you to close alone,” I tell her.

Rose raises her hand slightly.

“I can stay.” Her eyes is directed at me. “Then Amber won’t be alone.”

Amber points at her. “See? Teamwork.”

Before I can argue further, Donald walks past again.

“Hey, I’ve got a thing tonight that I really can’t push.” He’s lying through his fucking teeth, but it’s not like we’re not used to it. “You can handle closing, right, Izzy?”

“We’ve got it,” Amber says.

“As always,” Rose adds sweetly.

Donald looks directly at me. “Slacking off again, huh? Lucky that you’ve got people bailing you out.”

I nearly rip his head off. Nearly. I wish I could. But the sad truth is, I need this job more than I need my dignity.

“Hey. Relax. I was joking.” His eyes settles on my face. “You should smile more. You’d look prettier that way.”

I give him the biggest smile I can manage. All teeth.

For a moment he actually looks slightly uncomfortable. Then he scurries away.

Amber bursts out laughing.

Rose nearly chokes on her drink.

I shake my head and pick up another tray.

As I turn back toward the dining room, my gaze drifts automatically toward the mafia table.

And I see him watching me.

Niccolò Neri.

Our eyes meet across the room and my heart slams hard against my ribs.

I look away immediately.

The past should stay in the past. For everybody’s sake.

Especially mine.