The Mafia's Vengeful Queen

Wednesday nights at Nocturne typically brought a moderate crowd. Busy enough to preserve its exclusivity, quiet enough for conversations that carried weight. The kind of night where power shifted hands over half-finished drinks, where a well-timed word could be more lethal than a bullet.

Massimiliano arrived earlier than usual, settling into his regular booth while Antonio hovered at a discreet distance. He had spent the days since their club outing reviewing every interaction with Tatiana analyzing each slip, each calculated response. The picture forming in his mind was both fascinating and concerning. Whoever she was, whatever game she played, her skills far exceeded those of an ordinary adversary.

Determined to get to the bottom of this, tonight, he would push harder.

He watched her arrive for her shift, noting her movements as she stowed her purse beneath the bar, exchanged brief words with the other bartender, and adjusted the bottles in her station. Everything was efficient. The slight clumsiness she pretended to have last week was gone, which told him two things: either she believed he had already seen through that particular act, or, the likeliest explanation—she was adapting her strategy.

Unconventional move. Interesting, he thought. As his eyes followed her, he couldn't help but wonder—what purpose did it serve for her to change behavior every other week? It made little sense. If she wanted to keep him guessing, she was succeeding. If it was about catching his attention, there were easier ways. She could have just walked in looking stunning.

He waited until she had served several customers and established her rhythm for the night before making his move. Signaling to a waitress, he murmured instructions that sent her to the bar.

Moments later, the waitress approached Tatiana with a message. He watched her expression carefully as she received his summons. The briefest flash of calculation flickered across her face before settling into professional neutrality.

She retrieved a bottle of his Yamazaki and a fresh glass, then made her way to his booth with confidence. No nervousness, no hesitation. None of the nonsensical acts that she pulled last week. Only controlled purpose.

"Mr. De Luca." She placed the glass before him as she began to pour. "The waitstaff mentioned you requested me personally?"

"I prefer consistency." He nodded as he gestured to the seat across from him. "Join me for a moment, Tatiana."

It wasn't a request and they both knew it.

Tatiana's eyes flickered briefly to the half-empty bar before settling back to him. "I'm on shift."

"And do I need to remind you again that I own the bar?" He said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Sit. Just for a few minutes."

After a precisely calibrated hesitation, she slid into the booth across from him. Back straight, hands resting lightly on the table. His gaze followed her, his eyes lingering as if mapping every detail. The way she carried herself and all controlled elegance with an edge of danger beneath. Sharp mind, sharper tongue, and a body that made trouble look tempting. She's a problem, he thought. One that he should handle carefully.

And yet, he couldn't look away.

But right now, he needs to find out who she is.

"Franco won't appreciate you distracting his staff." Her tone was gently teasing, establishing a casual dynamic that only sharpened the tension between them.

"Franco appreciates his paycheck more than his opinions." Massimiliano took a small sip of whiskey, studying her over the rim of his glass. "How are you finding Nocturne, Tatiana? Still enjoying the work?"

"It has its moments." She offered a small smile. "The tips are good. The clientele is... interesting."

"Interesting." He repeated the word, testing it. "That's one way to describe the collection of criminals, politicians, and power brokers who frequent this establishment."

"You said it, not me." Her laugh came easily, casual, unforced, exactly the right volume. Perfect. Too perfect.

He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me something real about yourself, Tatiana."

"Real?" She raised an eyebrow. "As opposed to...?"

"As opposed to the carefully constructed persona you present." He maintained eye contact, watching for any flicker of discomfort. "The perfect bartender with the perfect background and the perfectly measured responses."

Instead of defensiveness, she laughed again, this time with what appeared to be genuine amusement. She leaned in slightly, mirroring his posture.

"You think I'm perfect? That's flattering, but I dropped an entire tray of glasses last week." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Franco nearly had an aneurysm."

The deflection was skillful. Acknowledging his accusation while redirecting with self-deprecating humor. He couldn't help but appreciate the technique.

"Convenient clumsiness." He didn't smile. "I've watched you. When you think no one's paying attention, your movements are flawless. Military precision. The mistakes only happen when you have an audience. Why is that, Tatiana?"

Something flickered behind her eyes. Not alarm, but recalculation. "Maybe I just get nervous when the boss is watching."

"You don't strike me as someone who gets nervous." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "In fact, I'd wager very little rattles you."

"Everyone has their triggers." She shrugged, the gesture perfectly casual. "Mine just happen to be spiders and tax audits."

He chuckled. His lips curved — not quite a full smile, but enough to make him unfairly attractive. "Funny."

"I try." She matched his smile with one of her own that was warm and inviting, dangerously close to creating the illusion of connection.

For the next twenty minutes, he kept her at the table, steering the conversation through seemingly random topics that were really designed to uncover more about her. He asked about her favorite books.

"Philosophy, mostly. Camus, Nietzsche. You know…existential stuff," she said.

Introspective, but suspiciously vague, he thought as he filed the answer away along with the rest. When childhood memories came up, she offered the most carefully curated, forgettable stories imaginable. Mundane volleyball practice, a funny story about how her parents forgot to pick her up from school one day — generic, safe answers. Travel experiences? Extensive but impersonal and devoid of specifics. Paris? The Eiffel Tower. Thailand? Bangkok. Generic, scripted. 

Through it all he studied her hands, the rhythm of her breathing, the micro-expressions that surfaced before vanishing behind perfect control.

He let out a soft exhale and nodded. She was good. Exceptionally good. Each response came without hesitation, each anecdote contained just enough details to feel authentic without providing actual verification points.

Then, as if on a cue, he changed tactics.

"I visited the old Moretti estate recently," he said, the shift abrupt and calculated. "Out in the Hamptons. Beautiful property, even after all these years."

The trap was perfectly set, a lie wrapped in truth. The Moretti estate had been razed to the ground fifteen years ago and the land repurposed into a private golf course with no trace of its former owners.

Tatiana's response came a fraction of a second too slowly. Her eyes widened slightly before quickly regaining her composure.

"Oh? I didn't realize any of those old family properties still existed." Her tone remained conversational, but he'd caught it. The calculation, the rapid mental adjustment.

"Many people don't." He maintained casual indifference while internally cataloging her reaction. "The old families kept certain assets quiet, especially after the restructuring in the early 2000s."

She nodded, taking the opening he had provided. "Real estate seems like a solid investment, no matter what business you're in."

"Indeed." He allowed the subject to drift toward safer territory, having confirmed what he suspected. She knew the Moretti estate was gone. Which meant she knew far more about the old families than any bartender should.

As their conversation continued, Massimiliano became aware of something else — a man at the bar, seemingly engaged with his phone but positioned at an angle that provided clear sightlines to their booth. Well-dressed, unremarkable features, perfect posture. Too perfect.

He'd been there for at least thirty minutes, nursing the same drink, occasionally typing on his phone but never actually calling anyone. Not obvious surveillance, but surveillance nonetheless. A professional. A spy, without question.

This was nothing new for him. Espionage was a constant in his world, a game played in shadows and stolen glances. That, at least, was easy to categorize. Tatiana, however, was another matter entirely.

Massimiliano made no indication he'd noticed, continuing his conversation with Tatiana while mentally cataloging the man's features for later investigation.

"I should get back," Tatiana said finally, glancing toward the increasingly busy bar. "Unless you'd like to explain to Franco why his customers are waiting for their drinks?"

"By all means." He gestured dismissively, allowing her to leave. "Thank you for the conversation, Tatiana. It was... enlightening."

Something in his tone made her pause, eyes narrowing slightly before she nodded and slid from the booth.

He watched her return to work, movements once again precise and efficient. Whatever game she played, she played it exceptionally well. But everyone had weaknesses. Everyone made mistakes.

And he'd just confirmed she had knowledge she shouldn't possess.