“Rocco.” He spread his hands wide, gesturing at the whole sad scene—the peeling linoleum, the burned coffee smell, me in my polyester uniform with Rocky pinned to my chest. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
My jaw tightened. “What are you doing here, Dimitri?”
“Not here by choice.” Dimitri picked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “Sent here on an errand.”
I stiffened.
Fuck. Don’t say it.
“Angelo wants to talk to you.” Those dark eyes locked onto mine. “Now.”
Fuck
The name landed like a punch to the gut. Angelo Santi. The vampire king of New Orleans. The man who ruled the French Quarter with an iron fist wrapped in silk. The last person I wanted to owe anything to.
“Why?”
Dimitri shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just the errand boy.”
“I’m working.”
He gave me a sly grin—the kind that said he was enjoying every second of this. “You want me to go back to Mr. Impatientand tell him you’re refusing to meet with him?” He spread his arms wide, taking in the grease-splattered grill, the flickering fluorescent lights, Nancy watching us from behind the register with open curiosity. “Because you’reworking. Here.”
The word dripped with exactly as much contempt as he intended.
I grabbed a rag and wiped my hands, buying time I didn’t have. “I need the money.”
“So.” Dimitri pushed off the counter and straightened his jacket. “Angelo will make it worth your while.”
Nancy threw her arm up in the air. “Rocky, you can’t seriously be thinking of walking out of here.”
Dimitri’s gaze dropped to my name tag. His grin widened. “Rocky?” He tilted his head. “You mean like Sylvester Stallone?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, I turned to Nancy. “Do you know who Angelo Santi is?”
The color drained from her face. Her gum-chewing stopped mid-pop. “You mean the gangster?”
“Yeah. He’s the one.” I untied my apron, fingers clumsy on the knot. “If I don’t go?—“
“Go.” She held up a hand, cutting me off. Her eyes darted to Dimitri, then back to me, and I saw real fear there. The kind that made her voice go thin. “I don’t want him coming here.”
I tossed the apron on the counter. Took one last look at the grill, the grease, the crooked menu board. Nancy wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Yeah. I wasn’t coming back.
I followed Dimitri out of Bernie’s and into the thick morning heat. A black limousine sat at the curb, gleaming like an oil slick against the faded storefronts. Tinted windows. The kind of car that screamed money and trouble in equal measure.
Something twisted in my chest. I used to ride in cars like this. Used to slide into the back seat like I belonged there, like the leather and the cold air and the tinted glass were my birthright.
Now I was standing on the sidewalk in a grease-stained uniform with someone else’s name pinned to my chest.
My stomach dropped. Was Angelo inside?
I yanked off my stupid hat and crushed it in my fist. The polyester was damp with sweat.
Dimitri opened the back door and wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a little grease ball.”
