NO ONE COULD HANDLE THE MAFIA BOSS’S DAUGHTER—UNTIL A WAITRESS WALKED INTO THE CHAOS AND DID THE IMPOSSIBLE

voice even. “It seemed impolite not to show up and ask what it’s for.”

Josiah set down his pen and finally looked at her.

His eyes were the color of slate.

Cold.

Analytical.

He leaned back in the leather chair and studied her for a long, uncomfortable minute. He noticed the fraying jacket. The tired posture. The steady gaze.

That last part mattered.

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