I blinked. “No.”
She gave a short laugh. “Of course you haven’t.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something you don’t mess with,” Carmine said flatly.
Trina leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “He’s in the Russian mafia and doesn’t give a shit about the law.”
I stared at them both. “You think he’s…involved in that for real?”
Trina smirked. “Sweetheart, there’s no telling how many people he’s killed.”
Carmine gave her a look but didn’t correct her.
My stomach turned.
“He’s a powerful man,” Carmine added, exhaling sharply. “The kind of man you don’t need to get close to. The kind that doesn’t leave loose ends.”
My voice came out small. “You really think he’s dangerous?”
Carmine’s expression didn’t change. “I know he is.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there. The memory of his fingers wrapped around my throat suddenly took on a new meaning, and that should have scared me. But it didn’t.
Carmine finally wiped his hands and said, “Whatever curiosity you’ve got about him, kill it. Fast. This city’s full of things you don’t want to learn the hard way.”
And just like that, he walked away.
My shift was almost over when the front door swung open, letting in a cold gust of wind that curled around my ankles. I glanced up from taking an order just in time to catch a change in the room—a ripple that started at the door and moved across the cafe. Conversations stuttered. A spoon clattered to the floor. Someone let out a cough, sharp and dry.
And then…silence.
The man who stepped inside wasn’t tall or particularly burly, but somehow, he sucked the air out of the room merely by existing.
He was stocky and broad-shouldered, his wool coat buttoned tight over a barrel chest. Deep scars cut across his face, and he glared at me with cold, dead eyes. The sneer on his face made every nerve in my body stand on end.
Carmine stepped out from behind the counter, calm but alert. “Can I help you?”
The man didn’t answer right away but looked around the shop as though he was scanning for trouble.
Then he pointed—at me.
“I need a word with that one,” he said, his voice low and rough. His hispanic accent carried that clipped, gritty edge I’d heard from gang members on the news—Central American, maybe? “Dollface in the apron,” he growled, stepping toward me.
My heart stopped.
Carmine moved between us before I could blink. “She’s working. You’ll need to come back another time.”
The man, totally unfazed, opened his coat slowly and gave Carmine a glimpse of the handgun tucked into his waistband.
I darted behind the back counter. Carmine didn’t even flinch. He glared at the man for a moment but then stepped aside.
A few patrons grabbed their bags and rushed out. One woman pulled her friend out the door by the arm. The man didn’t even glance at them. He came straight for me.
I tried to breathe.
He stopped inches from the counter and leaned in just enough for me to smell the nicotine on his breath.
