Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN BOOTH TWELVE|
The first man was broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His companion was thinner, younger, and wearing a black leather jacket that dripped rain onto the floor.
Neither looked at the menu.
They looked directly at the man in booth twelve.
“Dominic,” the scarred man said. “You've been avoiding our calls.”
Emma stopped beside the coffee station. The name meant nothing to her, but the way the stranger said it made the entire diner feel smaller.
The man in booth twelve set down his cup.
“I told your employer I'd have an answer by Friday.”
“Friday came and went.”
“Then perhaps your employer should learn to read a calendar.”
The younger man laughed, but there was no humor in it.
Sal appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Gentlemen, we're closing in ten minutes. You want a table, or—”
“Stay out of it,” the scarred man snapped.
Sal's smile disappeared.
Emma saw the younger man's hand slip beneath his jacket. She saw the scarred man's eyes flick toward the front door, checking whether anyone might interfere.
And she saw the man in booth twelve remain perfectly still.
He wasn't calm because he was unafraid.
He was calm because he had already decided how this would end.
The younger man pulled a knife.
“Get up,” he ordered Dominic. “You're coming with us.”
Dominic glanced at the blade.
“No.”
The word was quiet enough that Emma almost missed it.
The scarred man leaned across the table. “You think your name makes you untouchable?”
“No. I think you're making a mistake.”
The younger man lunged.
Emma didn't remember deciding to move. One moment she was standing beside the coffee station, and the next she had both hands around the hot glass pot.
She swung it.
Coffee splashed across the attacker's face and chest. He screamed, dropped the knife, and stumbled backward into a chair. The pot struck the edge of the table and shattered.
“Emma!” Sal shouted.
The scarred man turned toward her.
For one terrifying second, she thought he would hit her.
Then Dominic stood.
He moved so quickly that the scarred man barely had time to turn back. Dominic caught his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and drove him against the wall.
“Pick up the knife,” Dominic told the younger man.
The man stared at him.
“Now.”
He obeyed.
Two more men appeared in the doorway, both wearing dark suits. They didn't ask questions. One collected the knife; the other restrained the scarred man.
Dominic straightened his cuffs.
“Take them to the car. Call Victor. I want to know who authorized this.”
“Yes, Mr. Vale.”
The name landed in Emma's mind like a dropped stone.
Vale.
She had heard it before, whispered on television reports and muttered by neighbors who suddenly lowered their voices. The Vale organization controlled shipping contracts, nightclubs, construction companies, and, according to rumors, enough of Brooklyn's criminal underworld to make even seasoned police officers nervous.
Dominic Vale looked at Emma.
She was shaking so badly that she couldn't feel her fingertips.
“Are you hurt?”
She stared at him.
“I just threw coffee at a man with a knife.”
“I noticed.”
“You could say thank you.”
Something almost resembling a smile touched his mouth.
“Thank you.”
Then his gaze shifted to the broken glass near her shoes.
“You shouldn't have done that.”
Emma's anger rose through her fear.
“Next time, I'll let him stab you while I refill the sugar.”
His expression changed. Not anger. Surprise.
For the first time that evening, Dominic Vale looked at her as if she were something other than a waitress.
He reached into his coat, removed a business card, and placed it on the table.
“Don't go home alone tonight.”
“I don't take orders from strangers.”
“Then consider it advice from the man whose life you just saved.”
He left with his men.
Emma stood amid the broken glass, the smell of burnt coffee suddenly overwhelming.
On the card was a name, a private number, and an address in Manhattan.
Dominic Vale.
May you like
She slipped it into her apron, not knowing that someone outside had photographed her face through the rain-streaked window.
And that photograph would reach a man who had spent twenty years believing her mother was dead for good.
