The Mafia Boss Grinned When She Cursed Him in Sicilian and Then Told Her to Say It Again to His Face

By eleven o'clock on Thursday night, the waterfront was quiet.

The blue haulers had left at six, their engines humming smoothly down the avenue toward the interstate. Sal and Toby had gone home, leaving the bay clean, the tools wiped, and the concrete swept.

Frankie sat at her father’s old wooden desk in the small office behind Bay Two.

A single desk lamp illuminated a mountain of invoices, parts catalogs, and the thick leather contract Gabriel had left behind three days ago.

Her head ached. She was sipping cold, burnt coffee from a dented white mug, her thumb tracing the gold embossed logo of Costa Vanguard Logistics on the second page of the service agreement.

The contract was fair. More than fair. It guaranteed Bellini Auto a monthly retainer that would clear the shop’s remaining mortgage in eighteen months. It provided health insurance for Sal and Toby.

It was everything she had fought for.

So why did her chest feel so tight every time she read his signature at the bottom?

Gabriel Costa.

His handwriting was sharp, jagged, and aggressive—like a series of small, dark blades lined up across the white paper.

A quiet tap sounded against the glass door of the office.

Frankie jumped, her hand snatching a heavy steel paperweight off the desk before she consciously registered the movement.

Standing in the dim light of the dark bay was Gabriel.

He wore no coat tonight—just a dark gray sweater over a black shirt, dark trousers, and his hands resting loosely in his pockets. He looked less like a corporate CEO and more like the dangerous man who had grown up along the docks of Castellammare.

"We're closed," Frankie said through the door glass.

Gabriel pushed the door open with his foot, stepping into the warm, small office.

"The front gate was unlocked," he said smoothly.

"The lock sticks when the humidity rises," she muttered, setting her paperweight down. "I'll fix it tomorrow."

Gabriel walked over to the small wooden chair opposite her desk—the chair where customers sat when they were complaining about their bills—and sat down. He looked too large for the room, his long legs stretching out toward her desk, his shoulders filling the narrow space between the filing cabinet and the wall.

"You haven't signed the final addendum," he noted, nodding toward the folder.

"I'm reviewing section four," Frankie lied. "The clause about emergency roadside calls."

"Section four was written by my lawyers," Gabriel said, resting his elbow on the armrest, his dark eyes fixed on her pale face. "You don't care about section four. You care that my name is on the front door."

Frankie set her coffee mug down with a hard thud.

"Your name isn't on the door," she said sharply. "My dad’s name is on the door."

"For now," Gabriel said softly.

Frankie’s eyes narrowed into slits. "What does that mean?"

Gabriel leaned forward, bringing his face into the warm, yellow circle of light cast by the desk lamp.

"It means, Frankie," he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rumble that made her skin tingle, "that people along the waterfront are talking. They see my trucks in your bay. They know Leo lost his shirt at the card table. They think I broke you."

Frankie felt a surge of red-hot anger hit her throat. "Nobody breaks me."

"I know that," Gabriel said softly. "You know that. But men like the ones who run the docks... men who work for the Moretti family on the North Side... they see a woman running a shop alone, and they think it's a weak spot in my line."

Frankie froze. "Moretti?"

The Morettis were the old group—the old-school syndicate that had controlled the North Baltimore docks since the 1970s. They were crude, violent, and deeply jealous of Gabriel’s legal, corporate expansion over the past five years.

"They think you're my pressure point," Gabriel revealed, his dark eyes unwavering. "They think if they burn this shop, or if they hurt you, they can make me yield on the rail spur negotiations."

Frankie’s hand closed into a tight fist against her wooden desk.

"This is my shop," she said, her voice shaking with quiet fury. "I didn't ask to be part of your war with the Morettis."

"You became part of it the second your brother walked into my card room," Gabriel said simply.

He stood up from the small chair. He stepped around her desk, stopping right beside her leather office chair, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body through his dark sweater.

He reached out.

His thick, long fingers gently brushed a dark strand of hair away from her forehead, his thumb lightly skimming the high bone of her cheek.

Frankie’s breath hitched. She didn't pull back. She couldn't move. Every nerve in her body seemed locked onto the touch of his hand—warm, rough, and astonishingly gentle.

"I won't let them touch this shop, Frankie," Gabriel whispered, his gray-black eyes burning down into hers with an intensity that made her chest ache. "And I won't let them touch you."

"I can take care of myself," she rasped, her voice barely audible over the hum of the small desk fan.

Gabriel smiled—a soft, dark, genuine smile that reached all the way into his eyes.

"I know you can," he murmured, his thumb trailing down to her lower jaw, holding her chin with steady, light pressure. "Ma nun devi farlu da sola."

(But you don't have to do it alone.)

He pulled his hand back slowly, stepped toward the office door, and looked back at her over his broad shoulder.

"Lock the front gate, Frankie," he said smoothly. "I'll have Marco sit in the alley tonight."

Before she could answer, he walked out into the dark bay, his leather shoes clicking quietly against her father’s chipped floor until the side door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

Frankie sat in the yellow lamp light, her hand rising slowly to touch the spot on her cheek where his thumb had been.