The Waitress Called the Mafia Boss by His Old Nickname and Every Gun in the Diner Turned on Her

The private surgical suite on the lower sub-level of the tower smelled intensely of antiseptic and ozone.

Norah sat in a vinyl chair outside the operating bay, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her sweater was ruined, stained with Benjamin’s blood, but she refused the nurses who offered her a fresh change of clothes. She wouldn't move. She wouldn't budge.

Barnaby sat at her feet, carefully licking the blood of a syndicate hitman off his front paw.

Owen walked down the corridor, his left arm bound in a sling, his jaw bruised. He stopped in front of her and offered a paper cup of water.

"He’s out of surgery," Owen said, his voice rough. "The bullet passed through the intercostal muscle. Missed the lung by two inches. Cracked a rib, tore some tissue, but Benjamin is built out of granite and spite. He’s already waking up."

Norah took the water, her hands trembling. "And your men?"

"Three wounded. No fatalities. Vance sent fifteen shooters; none of them walked out." Owen looked down at Barnaby. "The cat’s an operative now. Marcus wants to buy him a steak."

"He prefers tuna," Norah whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek. "Can I see him?"

"He’s already asking for you. Threatening to pull his IV lines if we don't bring you in."

Norah stood up, her legs stiff, and pushed through the double doors into the recovery room.

Benjamin was propped up on the hospital bed, his chest wrapped in thick white bandages. He looked pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes, but the moment she entered, his gaze locked onto her, and the tension in his rigid posture vanished.

"Norah," he rasped, holding out his right hand.

She crossed the room in three strides, ignoring the medical monitors, and took his hand between both of hers. "You are an absolute idiot, Benjamin Hale."

"I’ve been told," he replied, a weak smile touching his lips. He tugged gently on her hand until she sat on the edge of the mattress. His fingers moved up to trace the curve of her jaw, his touch reverent. "Are you hurt?"

"You took a bullet for me and you're asking if I'm hurt?" She let out a half-sob, half-laugh. "I have a bruised ego and a ruined sweater. You have a hole in your ribs."

"A fair trade," he murmured. "You saved my life in that study. You and that lunatic cat."

"Barnaby expects a promotion to head of security," she said softly, leaning in until her face was inches from his. "Benjamin... why didn't you look for me? When you survived the fire... why didn't you try to find where they sent me?"

A shadow of intense, old agony crossed his gray eyes. He looked away, his jaw working before he found the words.

"I did," he whispered. "I spent two years looking for you, Norah. But Vance’s people were monitoring the social welfare records. When they realized one of the older boys had survived, they started looking for loose ends. If I had reached out to you... if I had brought you into my orbit when I had nothing, no power, no soldiers... Vance would have killed you just to bury the secret of that fire."

He turned back to her, tears shining in the corners of his eyes—something Norah knew no other living soul had ever seen.

"I chose to let you believe I was dead so you could live," he choked out. "I thought you were safe in Peoria. I told myself that every year I stayed away was another year you were alive. But when the reports came back from the state archives three years ago saying your record had been purged after an administrative error... I thought I had lost you anyway."

Norah’s heart broke. All those years of feeling abandoned, of wondering why the universe had spared her only to leave her utterly alone in cold apartments and greasy diners, melted away. He hadn't forgotten her. He had been standing between her and a firing squad for fifteen years without her ever knowing.

"I didn't need a savior, Puck," she whispered, leaning down and pressing her forehead against his. "I needed you."

"You have me," he said, his uninjured arm wrapping around the back of her neck, pulling her mouth down to his. "You have all of me. Until the day my heart stops beating."

The kiss was slow, deep, and intoxicating, sweeping away the blood and gunpowder of the night. Norah kissed him with the pent-up longing of a girl who had waited fifteen years for her best friend to come home, and Benjamin held her like a man who had finally reclaimed his soul from the flames.

When they parted, out of breath, Benjamin looked toward the doorway.

Owen stood there, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Boss."

Benjamin’s eyes narrowed, his business demeanor returning instantly. "What is it, Owen?"

"We cracked the comms on the lead shooter’s radio," Owen reported, his face grim. "Vance isn't at any of his estates. He’s holed up at the old terminal on the South Branch. The industrial parcel where Briar House used to stand."

Norah froze. "He went back to the orphanage?"

"He’s tearing the foundations out," Owen said. "He brought heavy demolition equipment tonight. He’s trying to dig up the original drainage tunnels before we can subpoena the municipal records."

"There's something buried there," Benjamin realized, his voice turning deadly cold. "Something he didn't want the city inspectors to find fifteen years ago."

Benjamin began to peel back the hospital blankets, swinging his bare legs over the edge of the bed.

"Whoa, hold on!" Norah said, pushing his chest gently. "You were in surgery an hour ago! You have eight stitches in your side!"

"I don't care if I have eighty stitches," Benjamin said, standing up on steady, unyielding legs. Pain flared across his features, but he swallowed it, his will stronger than his flesh. "Vance burned our home. He killed our friends. And now he’s trying to erase the evidence on the very ground where they died."

He turned to Owen. "Mobilize every unit we have. Arm everyone. We finish this tonight where it started."

Then he looked at Norah. He didn't tell her to stay. He knew better.