**No One Knew How to Save the Mafia Boss at 37,000 Feet—Until a Flight Attendant Saw What Everyone Else Missed**

Dawn broke over County Clare in a pale, bruised wash of grey and lilac. Evelyn had not slept. She sat in an oversized velvet armchair by the window of the manor suite, watching the rain beat a steady rhythm against the old glass.

Her phone—stripped of its SIM card by Marco to prevent digital tracking—sat on the side table like a dead paperweight.

A soft knock echoed at the door.

Evelyn froze. She stood up slowly, her muscles aching from tension. "Who is it?"

"It's Marco," came the muffled voice from the hallway. "Open up."

She turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open. Marco looked exhausted; his tie was gone, his top shirt button undone, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. He pushed past her into the room, carrying a tray with black coffee and dry toast.

"You look terrible," Evelyn said bluntly.

"And you look like someone who is about to realize how deep she has stepped into a meat grinder," Marco replied, setting the tray on the desk. He pulled a chair around and sat down heavily. "We received a secure sit-rep from the hospital ten minutes ago."

Evelyn’s heart gave a hard thump. "Is Antonio... did he die?"

"No," Marco said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Antonio woke up at 5:00 AM. The first thing he asked for wasn't water. It wasn't a phone. He asked if you were safe."

Evelyn blinked, taken aback. "Me? Why would a mafia boss care if a flight attendant is safe?"

"Because Antonio Vitelli does not trust coincidences, Ms. Foster. In his world, people who save your life when an executioner is standing in the shadows are either angels or very sophisticated actors." Marco leaned forward, locking his dark eyes onto hers. "He wants to speak with you."

"Speak with me? Where? In a hospital room surrounded by armed guards?"

"No," Marco said quietly. "Here. He's being discharged against medical advice in two hours. A private medical chopper is bringing him to this estate. He wants to interview you himself."

Evelyn crossed her arms defensively. "I am not a prisoner. I demand to be taken to the American Embassy in Dublin."

"If you walk into the American Embassy right now, you will be met by agents on the payroll of the 'Ndrangheta before you reach the front desk," Marco said without a trace of hesitation. "Listen to me, Evelyn—may I call you Evelyn?"

She didn't answer, but she didn't stop him.

"Someone inside the Vitelli family wants Antonio dead. That someone is also hunting you because you ruined their masterpiece. If you leave this house, you are walking into open crossfire. Your only protection right now is the man you saved."

Evelyn walked back to the window, looking out over the desolate Irish countryside. The mist was thick enough to swallow the tree line completely. She thought of her apartment in Queens, her cat, her predictable, safe, boring life thirty-seven thousand feet above the mundane worries of the world. All of it felt like a lifetime away.