“Morning, sugar! I’m Lyla.”
The voice scraped down my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It grated against the rough edges of my exhaustion. Too cheery. Too sweet. And way too Southern for Manhattan. I clenched my jaw, already regretting the decision to sit here.
“What can I get you started with this morning? Hmm. You know, I heard the weatherman say it’s gonna be a gorgeous fall day after the rain clears out and the fog burns off. He said it might even hit sixty later this afternoon and that we’re gonna have a couple of sunny days. You know, with Halloween being tomorrowandfalling on a Friday this year, all the kids are gonna lose their minds. No school the next day, just candy and chaos. Perfect for trick-or-treating. Dontcha think?”
Jesus Christ.
I didn’t even have to look up to know she was smiling. Anyone this chipper before six a.m. was either a psychopath or a problem.
I dropped the corner of the paper just enough to get a look at her.
She had wild blonde hair tied up in some kind of messy ponytail, and there was a wicked curve to her lips that was way too inviting for a girl who clearly didn’t know the sort of man she was standing in front of. Her eyes? Blue as a glacier melt and twice as dangerous—the kind of pretty that made men stupid. I clocked her instantly: young and naïve, with legs that belonged on a stage, and a thick country drawl dripping off every syllable. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.
Not my type. My women were usually tall, long-legged, and smart enough to keep their mouths shut—women who liked fucking but didn’t want to hang around long enough for a conversation. But this girl? She was pure temptation wrapped in inexperience. The kind of innocent that begged to be corrupted.
I stared at her like she was a bug I hadn’t decided whether or not to crush.
“Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit,” I snapped, flicking the paper back up between us.
There was a pause. A long one. Then she responded in a saccharine tone, “Well, blessyourheart. I’ll be sure to add a shot of decency to that order.”
I stiffened.
She headed for a table by the window before I could snap back, but every cell in my body wanted to. Who the hell did this nobody waitress with an attitude think she was?
I subtly turned the paper, pretending to keep reading, but watched her in my periphery. She moved like she owned the damn floor. She was totally unaware she’d walked into a hunting ground, that the eyes tracking her weren’t admiring the view but calculating the distance. She was oblivious to me.
And the way she chatted it up at that table of theater wannabes like she was fucking auditioning for a Broadway production made my temples throb. That southern accent clung to her every word like syrup to waffles, and I didn’t even need her addressto know she was a hick from some flyspeck town that thought Applebee’s was fine dining. She’d probably grown up barefoot, catching lightning bugs and thinking New York was where dreams come true.
What the hell had Carmine been thinking, hiring someone like her in a place like this?
But then…she laughed. Soft, bright, unfiltered—like nothing in the world ever made her sad. It was so fucking genuine it threw me off. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that. Hell, I wasn’t sure I ever had. And now I was wondering what it would feel like to be the reason a woman smiled like that, to live in a world where happiness came from something as simple as serving coffee to strangers.
I folded the paper and laid it on the table, narrowing my eyes as she moved toward the bar.
Behind the counter, Trina, my usual server, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the girl. Her gaze was keen, missing nothing. Her dark hair was pinned back perfectly, her black apron crisp, and she carried herself like someone who knew how to follow orders—or give them. She was mafia through and through—not by blood, but by understanding. She knew exactly who Carmine was, what Cipher really was. She’d been here since Luca first set up the lease with Carmine.
When Lyla moved from the table she was waiting on and started entering her orders into the terminal at the counter, Trina caught my eye and gave me a subtle nod before shifting her focus to Lyla.
The difference between the two waitresses was night and day.
Trina leaned in toward Lyla, lips tight, and then let her have it.
Lyla’s face twisted as she was scolded. Then she said something back—too quick, too loud. Trina didn’t flinch, just tilted her head and stared her down like a cat watching a mouse.
I slid my phone out of my jacket pocket, resting my arm on the edge of the table. I scrolled through messages, feigning disinterest, but my eyes never left Lyla.
One of the baristas handed off my drink to her, and Trina pointed toward my table like she was handing down a sentence.
Lyla took the cup, slapped on the fakest fucking smile I’d ever seen, and made her way back to my table—swinging her hips like she was in a beauty pageant.
She set the cup down in front of me with all the grace of a stage performer, her hand brushing mine just enough to send a jolt straight to my groin.
“Here you go, darlin’. One piping hot cup of silence, just how you like it.”
I didn’t look up, just waved her off with two fingers, the universal signal forget lost.
She didn’t move, waiting for a reply I wouldn’t make.
