A Poor Waitress Defended an Elderly Woman—Unaware She Was the Mafia Boss’s Mother

Chapter 1 – [THE COST OF A SINGLE CUP]

Camille walked out from behind the pastry case.

“We don’t run a shelter, Delphine,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Tell her to leave.”

Delphine looked at the elderly woman. She was shivering. Water dripped from her silver hair onto the pristine marble floor.

“She just wants to wait out the rain,” Delphine said softly.

“She’s dripping on my floor,” Camille snapped. “Customers who don’t buy anything don’t sit. Ask her to leave, or I will.”

The elderly woman lowered her eyes. “It’s quite alright. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

She turned back toward the freezing rain.

“Wait,” Delphine said.

Delphine wiped her hands on her apron. She walked over to the register. She pulled her worn wallet from her pocket and took out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. It was half of her grocery budget for the week.

“Ring up a large hot chocolate and a butter croissant,” Delphine told Elise, the cashier.

Elise froze. Camille stepped forward, her eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing?” Camille demanded.

“She’s a paying customer now,” Delphine said, handing the receipt to the elderly woman. “Please, sit by the radiator. It’s warm there.”

The woman looked at the receipt, then up at Delphine. Her dark eyes were startlingly sharp, calculating, absorbing every detail of the interaction.

“Thank you, my dear,” the woman whispered.

She took a seat by the window.

Camille’s face flushed with fury. She grabbed Delphine’s arm, pulling her toward the back kitchen.

“You think you’re clever?” Camille hissed. “You think you can undermine me in front of the staff?”

“I’m just doing my job,” Delphine said, pulling her arm away.

“Not anymore,” Camille smiled coldly. “You’re fired.”

Delphine’s stomach dropped. Panic, cold and absolute, seized her throat.

“Camille, please. I need this job. My daughter’s inhaler—”

“I don’t care about your kid’s asthma,” Camille interrupted. “Get your things and get out.”

To make her point, Camille grabbed Delphine’s open tote bag off the breakroom hook and dumped it onto the floor.

Keys. A cheap hairbrush. Posie’s broken crayon.

And the small, spiral notebook where Delphine tracked her missing tips.

The notebook landed face down, splayed open.

Camille looked down at the pages. Her arrogant smile vanished.

Answer one: Camille wasn’t just firing Delphine for insubordination. She was firing her because she realized Delphine was tracking the money.

Open two: Why did Camille look terrified instead of angry? And why did she quickly snatch the notebook off the floor?

“I’ll be keeping this,” Camille said, her voice suddenly trembling. “Company property.”

“That’s mine!” Delphine reached for it, but Camille shoved her back.

“Get out before I call the police for trespassing,” Camille spat.

Tears burning her eyes, Delphine grabbed her coat and walked out. The bakery was dead silent.

As she pushed through the front door into the freezing rain, the elderly woman followed her out.

“Wait,” the woman said softly.

Delphine wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to go.”

The woman reached out and pressed a heavy, cold object into Delphine’s palm.

“My son doesn’t tolerate thieves,” the woman said, her voice suddenly carrying the weight of a judge. “And he certainly doesn’t tolerate anyone disrespecting the people who show his mother kindness.”

Delphine looked down at her hand.

It was a heavy, solid gold coin. Stamped into the center was a single phone number.

“Call it,” the woman said.

Delphine walked to the bus stop, her hands shaking. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number.

It rang twice.

A man answered. His voice was deep, gravelly, and terrifyingly calm.

“Where is my mother?”

“She’s… she’s safe,” Delphine stammered. “She told me to call this number. Camille just fired me and took my notebook.”

Silence on the line. Then, the man spoke.

“Camille took the ledger?”

“It’s just a notebook,” Delphine said.

“No, Delphine,” the man replied, sending a chill down her spine. “It’s not. My name is Victor Castellano. Stay exactly where you are. We’ve been looking for that book for three years.”

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