Chapter 2 - The Hundred-Dollar Tip
My hands shook harder.
Coffee sloshed over the cup.
“I insulted him. I called this place not fancy enough for him. I—”
“You’re still breathing. Maybe he found it funny. Get the pie. Move fast. And for God’s sake, Clare, keep your mouth shut.”
That had never been one of my talents.
I carried the coffee and pie back on a tray.
My heart pounded as I approached.
Dante Caruso.
The name felt heavy now.
Dangerous.
He had not moved. He sat in the same relaxed position while the guards remained rigid on either side of the booth.
He was looking at his phone.
Completely unconcerned with the room around him because he did not need to be concerned.
He was the danger in the room.
I set down the coffee and pie carefully, trying not to let the cup rattle against the saucer.
His eyes lifted.
“Your name.”
Not a question.
“Clare.”
“Clare.”
He said it slowly, as though testing an unfamiliar language.
“Italian?”
“Irish, actually. Clare Murphy.”
“Murphy.”
Another faint almost-smile.
“You are very far from Ireland, Murphy.”
“Queens. Born and raised.”
“Queens.”
He repeated the word.
He picked up the coffee cup.
His fingers brushed mine.
The contact was barely a second long, but electricity seemed to travel up my arm.
“And you work here?”
“2 shifts.”
His gaze moved to my feet.
“How do you know?”
“Your feet.”
“The way you stand. You shift your weight every few seconds.”
He looked at my face.
“Pain. And your eyes. You have the eyes of someone who does not sleep enough.”
I should have been frightened.
I was frightened.
But I was also fascinated.
“Are you a doctor or a mobster?”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Horror crashed through me.
The temperature inside the diner seemed to drop.
The scarred guard drew his gun halfway from his jacket.
The other man started toward me.
Dante raised his hand.
Both stopped instantly.
“Both require attention to detail,” he said softly. “But only 1 of those professions would forgive such boldness.”
My heart stopped.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“You meant it. You are either very brave or very stupid, piccola. I have not decided which.”
“Probably stupid.”
“Probably.”
Something almost warm had entered his voice.
“Sit.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Sit.”
The command left no room for negotiation.
My knees folded before my brain could object.
I slid into the opposite side of the booth.
Up close, I noticed more details.
The expensive watch.
The signet ring engraved with a design I could not make out.
The open collar of his shirt revealing the hollow of his throat.
“How old are you?”
“24.”
“Young.”
He cut into the apple pie with the edge of his fork.
“Too young to be this exhausted.”
“Bills don’t care about age.”
“Family?”
He watched me as he took a bite.
“Just me.”
Something flickered in his expression.
“Everyone has someone.”
“Not everyone.”
I hesitated.
“My mom died 3 years ago. Cancer. No siblings. My dad was never really in the picture.”
Why was I telling him this?
This dangerous stranger who could apparently make people disappear.
He set down his fork.
“I am sorry for your mother.”
The sincerity surprised me.
“Thank you.”
For a moment, we sat in silence.
Rain continued striking the windows.
A pan clattered in the kitchen.
Normal sounds in a completely abnormal moment.
“This pie is terrible,” Dante said.
A laugh burst out of me.
“I warned you.”
“You did.”
He pushed the plate away.
“The coffee is acceptable.”
He finished it, reached into his wallet, and placed a $100 bill on the table.
“The pie was $6.”
“I know.”
“That’s too much.”
“Perhaps I am paying for the entertainment.”
He stood and buttoned his jacket.
“You are the first person in 5 years to challenge my expectations.”
He looked at my name tag again.
“Murphy.”
“Yes?”
“Do not work 2 shifts anymore. It is bad for your health.”
“I need the money.”
He tilted his head.
“Everyone needs money. But money is useless if you are dead from exhaustion.”
He paused.
“Or worse things.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he turned.
His guards moved with him.
At the doorway, Dante stopped and looked back.
For a moment, I saw something in his expression that resembled hunger.
No.
Not hunger exactly.
Focus.
Predatory concentration.
“This diner,” he said. “You work here often?”
“Every day.”
He nodded.
“Good to know.”
Then he disappeared into the rain with his guards, leaving only the fading scent of expensive cologne and danger behind.
Tommy rushed over as soon as the door closed.
“What did he say? What did you tell him?”
I looked at the $100 bill.
My hands were still trembling.
“I think I just made the worst mistake of my life.”
But even as I said it, I could not stop remembering Dante’s dark eyes.
The way he had looked at me as though I were a puzzle he intended to solve.
Or possess.
Rain continued falling outside, and somewhere in the city, I knew Dante Caruso was thinking about the exhausted waitress who had told him he was too fancy for her diner.
I should have felt relieved that he was gone.
Instead, certainty pressed heavily against my chest.
This was not over.
Whatever had begun in those few minutes was only beginning.
And I had no idea how I was supposed to survive the ending.
I did not see Dante Caruso again for 3 days.
For 3 days, I convinced myself the entire thing had been a fever dream, a hallucination produced by exhaustion and too much bad coffee.
For 3 days, I almost believed I was safe.
Almost.
The first sign came on Thursday.
I was wiping tables during the mid-afternoon lull when a black Mercedes pulled up outside.
Not an ordinary Mercedes.
One of those armored cars with windows so heavily tinted no one could see inside.
The kind of vehicle that announced money and danger in equal measure.
A man stepped out.
May you like
Not Dante.
The scarred guard from the diner.
