I never meant to get involved with the family. But things happen right?
My name is Sofia Rossi, I worked as a waitress at their favorite restaurant in Little Italy. Pouring wine for men in polished suits who spoke in low tones and tipped high. I knew who they were, and so did everyone.
The Moretti family ran the neighborhood, you dare not ask questions. There were whispers about deals gone wrong, bodies found in the river, but they offered protection. I kept my head down, smiled politely, and collected my envelope of cash tips that could foot my bills, even pay my rent for a month.
But I caught a Moretti's eyes. His name is Vincent.
Vincent was the underboss, in his late thirties, he had sharp jaws, hazel eyes that saw everything, and tattoo on the back of his neck. He came in every
