Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Knew His Coffee|
The kitchen door swung open before I could turn off the faucet.
A man stood in the doorway wearing a charcoal coat, rain shining on his shoulders. Up close, he looked less like a customer and more like someone who had spent his entire life teaching other people not to ask questions.
His dark hair was neatly combed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and a thin scar ran from the edge of his left eyebrow toward his temple. His eyes moved from my soaked shirt to the apron folded beside the sink.
Then they stopped on the embroidered name.
Quinn’s.
“Why are you washing dishes?” he asked.
I glanced toward the dining room.
“Because that’s my job.”
“Not tonight, apparently.”
I dried my hands on a towel.
“You should probably ask the woman who’s serving you.”
“I did.”
His voice was quiet, but something in it made the room feel smaller.
“She told me you were taking a break.”
“That’s generous of her.”
His gaze flickered toward the round window in the kitchen door. Through it, I could see Chelsea laughing too loudly at something he had said earlier, although he hadn't smiled once.
“Did you make my coffee?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did you tell her how I take it?”
“Yes.”
“And she ignored you?”
I hesitated.
“I'm not responsible for what other people do with instructions.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
More like recognition.
“What's your name?”
“Nora.”
“Nora what?”
“Bennett.”
He looked at me for another second, as if filing the name away somewhere I would never be able to reach.
Then he walked back into the café.
I followed, stopping beside the kitchen door.
Chelsea was standing behind the counter with her hands folded, wearing the expression she usually reserved for expensive restaurants where the staff didn't know our family.
The man picked up the untouched coffee.
“Did you put sugar in this?”
Chelsea blinked.
“Two packets. Most people prefer—”
“I didn't ask what most people prefer.”
Her smile weakened.
“I thought you might like something different.”
“I come here at midnight for forty nights, order the same coffee, sit on the same stool, and leave the same tip.”
He set the cup down.
“What part of that suggested I wanted your opinion?”
A customer near the window lowered his newspaper.
Chelsea's cheeks reddened.
Maureen appeared from the office, moving with the smooth urgency of a woman who could smell a financial problem before it entered the room.
“Is there an issue, sir?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the cup.
“I'll have another made immediately.”
“No.”
Maureen paused.
The man reached into his coat and removed a black leather wallet. He laid a business card beside the hundred-dollar bill.
“Bring me the woman who knows how I take my coffee.”
Maureen picked up the card.
Her expression changed so quickly that I almost missed it.
Almost.
The color drained from her face. Her fingers tightened around the paper, and for one strange moment she looked as though she had seen a ghost.
“Mr. Cole,” she whispered.
Chelsea turned toward her.
“You know him?”
Maureen ignored her.
“Mr. Cole, we weren't expecting you tonight.”
“Neither was I expecting a cup of sweetened dishwater.”
His gaze shifted to the kitchen door.
“Nora.”
I stepped forward.
“Come here.”
I should have stayed where I was. I should have remembered every warning Maureen had ever given me about powerful men, dangerous men, and men whose names could close a business before breakfast.
But something in his voice wasn't a command to obey.
It was an invitation to stop hiding.
I approached the counter.
He pulled out the third stool.
“Sit.”
“I work here.”
“Not anymore, apparently.”
“I haven't been fired.”
“Then we're going to find out who thinks they can fire you.”
Maureen placed the business card back on the counter as if it might burn her.
“Mr. Cole, this is a family matter.”
Adrian Cole finally looked at her.
“Then you should have kept it in your family.”
Silence swallowed the café.
I knew the name. Everyone in the city knew the name. Adrian Cole controlled shipping companies, nightclubs, warehouses, and businesses whose official paperwork never seemed to tell the whole story. People said he could make a problem disappear without raising his voice.
I had spent forty nights serving him coffee without knowing that the man on the third stool was the most feared figure in Chicago's criminal underworld.
Now he was looking at my stepmother as if she were a problem he had just decided to investigate.
“Tell me something, Nora,” he said. “How long have you worked here?”
“Two years.”
“And how long has this woman been taking money out of the register after closing?”
Maureen's hand froze.
I stared at him.
“How do you know about that?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he slid the hundred-dollar bill toward me.
“Keep the tip tonight.”
“I didn't serve you.”
“No. You taught someone else how to do it, and she decided she knew better.”
He rose from the stool.
Then he leaned close enough that only I could hear his next words.
“Tomorrow morning, don't sign anything your stepmother puts in front of you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
For the first time, Adrian Cole looked genuinely angry.
May you like
“Because, Nora, someone has been using your father's name to steal from me.”
And before I could ask what he meant, he walked out into the rain, leaving Maureen staring at the door as if the devil himself had just promised to return.
