His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Doesn't even try. "Vance sends his regards."
The café goes quiet.
Not the comfortable kind. The wrong kind. The kind where everyone's holding their breath and pretending not to listen while listening to every single word.
I set down the milk pitcher. Wipe my hands on my apron. Step out from the counter.
"We're closed for private business," I say, keeping my voice level. Calm. The way I've learned to talk to aggressive customers, the ones who think volume equals authority.
The suit's smile widens. Sharklike. All teeth, no warmth. "That so? Sign out front says you're open."
"The sign's wrong."
"Funny. All these people seem to think otherwise." He gestures lazily at the occupied tables. Mrs. Abernathy clutches her teacup tighter. Gumbo's halfway out of his chair, knuckles white on the armrest.
Grath moves. Not fast, but deliberate. Positions himself between the suits and me. Doesn't say a word. Just stands there, a wall of green muscle and barely leashed violence.
The suit's eyes flick up. And up. His smile falters, just for a second.
"Mr. Vance," the man says, recovering, voice dripping false courtesy, "is prepared to make a very generous offer for this property. Triple market value. Cash. Immediate closing."
"Not interested," I say.
"You haven't heard the number."
"Don't need to."
The second suit shifts by the door. His hand moves to his jacket pocket. Not subtle. Meant to be seen.
Grath notices. His stance widens fractionally. Weight on the balls of his feet now, ready.
The first suit holds up a placating hand, a gesture so obviously rehearsed it makes my teeth ache. "No need for unpleasantness. We're just messengers. Delivering an opportunity." He pulls a cream-colored envelope from his inner pocket, thick paper, expensive. "Mr. Vance's offer. Review it at your leisure. You've got forty-eight hours to respond."
He sets it on the nearest table. Mrs. Abernathy recoils like it might bite her.
"Forty-eight hours," he repeats, louder now, making sure everyone hears. "After that, the offer expires. Mr. Vance will be finalising his plans at the Harborside Development Gala on Saturday. He'd hate for the rowhouse situation to still be unresolved by then. Loose ends make for an unpleasant evening." He smooths his lapel. "After that, he explores... alternative solutions."
The threat hangs in the air. Unsubtle. Deliberate.
They leave.
The door chimes again. That same cheerful sound, grotesquely out of place.
Nobody moves.
Then Mrs. Abernathy stands. Picks up the envelope between two fingers like it's contaminated and marches it straight to the trash. Drops it in. Dusts off her hands.
"Forty-eight hours my foot," she announces to the room. "These vultures can take their blood money and choke on it."
Gumbo starts clapping. Slow at first, then building. Others join. Scattered applause that feels more like defiance than celebration.
I should feel relieved. Supported.
Instead, my hands are shaking.
I turn back to the counter. Resume making drinks I can barely focus on. Muscle memory takes over. Grind, tamp, pull. Steam, pour, serve.
Grath hovers. Doesn't touch me, doesn't speak, just stays close. Solid presence at my peripheral.
