“I can let her go,” he offered.
“No,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “Don’t.”
His brow furrowed. “Sir?”
“She needs the money. Holes in her jeans say enough. Let her keep it. Just make sure she understands her place.”
“Absolutely.” He nodded quickly. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll be properly dressed, respectful, and in the back when you come in. You have my word.”
“I’m sure she’ll dive behind the espresso machine next time.” I chuckled, standing and foldingThe Timesunder my arm.
Carmine offered me a sheepish grin. “She’s usually a favorite, believe it or not. Got half the old bastards in here tipping double just to hear her saysugar. But I’ll make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable.”
“See that she doesn’t.”
He dipped his head and turned, already straightening his sleeves like a man about to serve justice. As I reached the door, his voice—low, sharp, and commanding—carried from the back of the shop.
I glanced back.
Carmine was laying into her, gesturing with clipped movements. But she just stood there, chin high, arms crossed, not flinching. And that mouth of hers was moving like she was giving him hell right back.
Defiant. Proud.
Fucking suicidal.
She didn’t understand this world.
She didn’t understand me.
But she would.
I stepped outside and turned toward the street, then slowed. I lit another cigarette around the cup in my hand and leaned against the bricks at the edge of the window. The smoke drifted up as I watched her through the glass.
She was laughing at something Carmine said. There was that fake smile again. Or maybe not fake. I wasn’t sure. I watched the way her hands moved, the way she talked with them.She was animated, expressive, like everything she said was a performance.
Lyla was a lamb in a city of wolves.
And I had just caught her scent.
Chapter two
Ididn’t flinch when Carmine’s bark cut through Cipher like a shotgun blast. But Lord, did I feel the air shift. People stilled. Conversations ceased. Every spoon froze mid-stir.
He came at me with that mean-old-man vibe. Carmine was the kind who’d scare you just for fun and to make you feel bad for not saying “Yes, sir.”
But I wasn’t afraid of him. Not even close.
From the moment I’d walked into this place practically begging for a job, he’d been all grumbles and gruffness. But I’d smiled sweetly, called himsir, and laid the charm on thick. He’d hired me on the spot. Since then, we’d butted heads a few times, but mostly, we’d figured each other out.
Carmine wouldn’t say it out loud, but he liked me, and I got the impression that, deep down, he viewed me like the daughter he’d never had.
I made the regulars laugh, soothed the tempers of the most challenging customers, and handled chaos with a grin. He’d figured out quickly that I wasn’t just sunshine and small talk—Iworked. Hard. I scrubbed drains, cleaned out the rancid milk trap, and took the worst shifts without complaint. And Carmine? He might puff up like a guard dog, but when it came to me, he was a marshmallow. Well, until today apparently. He looked pissed, for real.
“Miss Oakley,” he snapped, storming out of the back like smoke billowing from a fire. “Back counter. Now.”
I squared my shoulders, raised my chin high, and gave a parting glare to the man in black. Bastard.
Spinning on my heel, I muttered under my breath, “Dictators and psychopaths get their coffee black and silent. Got it.”
