Chapter 2 - The Man in the Black Mercedes
Three days after Dante Caruso walked out of my diner, the man with the scar through his eyebrow walked back in.
He did not order coffee.
He did not sit down.
He simply crossed the cracked tile floor while every customer suddenly became interested in something other than him.
I was wiping table four when his shadow fell across my hands.
“Clare Murphy?”
I straightened slowly.
“You already know my name.”
His expression did not change.
“Mr. Caruso asked me to give you something.”
He placed a cream-colored envelope on the table.
I stared at it.
“If there’s a severed finger in there, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
Now I understood why he worked for Dante. Apparently emotional constipation was part of the hiring process.
“It’s not a finger.”
“Comforting.”
“Open it.”
“I’m working.”
He glanced around the diner.
Three customers.
A broken ceiling fan.
Tommy pretending not to listen from behind the register.
“You appear overwhelmed.”
I folded my arms.
“Does everyone who works for Dante Caruso insult people professionally?”
“No. Usually we let the boss do it.”
That surprised a laugh out of me.
The guard almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he nodded toward the envelope.
I opened it.
Inside was a business card.
No handwritten message.
No money.
Just an address on East Fifty-Seventh Street and a time.
7:30 P.M.
Tonight.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
“Dinner.”
“With Dante?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The guard blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
Apparently, that word did not enter the Caruso universe often.
“He asked me to invite you.”
“No, he ordered you to collect me.”
“That is not exactly—”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
The guard studied me for several seconds.
“You’re working until six.”
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know that?”
“We know things.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Sometimes.”
I shoved the card back into the envelope.
“Tell Mr. Caruso thanks, but I don’t date customers.”
“It isn’t a date.”
“Great. Then I definitely don’t need to go.”
For the first time, the guard looked genuinely amused.
“My name is Nico, by the way.”
“Wonderful. Now I know who to mention in my restraining order.”
Nico turned toward the door.
Then stopped.
“He expected you to refuse.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“He said you would refuse the first invitation.”
“And?”
“He told me not to ask twice.”
That surprised me.
I had expected intimidation.
Pressure.
Maybe one of those terrifying mafia-boss commands that made everyone obey.
Instead Nico simply left.
At 6:07, I walked out of the diner.
The Mercedes was gone.
I felt strangely disappointed.
That annoyed me more than Dante’s invitation.
I rode the subway home to my tiny apartment in Queens, heated canned soup, showered, and spent forty minutes insisting to myself that I had made the correct decision.
At 7:26, I was still thinking about him.
At 7:30, I opened the envelope again.
At 7:42, I called a cab.
I hated myself the entire way into Manhattan.
The address belonged to a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city.
Not just a restaurant.
The kind of restaurant where the hostess looked at my black dress as if calculating whether it cost enough to deserve entry.
It didn’t.
I had bought it four years earlier for my mother’s funeral.
It was the nicest thing I owned.
“Name?”
“Murphy.”
Her expression changed immediately.
“Ms. Murphy. Of course.”
Of course?
She escorted me through the restaurant.
Dante sat alone beside a wall of glass overlooking Manhattan.
Black suit.
Black shirt.
No tie.
He rose when he saw me.
That simple act caught me off guard.
Men like Dante did not look like they stood for anyone.
“You came.”
“You knew I would?”
“No.”
His gaze moved across my face.
“I hoped.”
That was worse.
I sat.
“You sent your bodyguard to my workplace.”
“Nico frightened you?”
“No.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“The fact that you apparently know my schedule.”
Dante considered this.
“Fair criticism.”
I stared.
“Did the terrifying mafia boss just admit he was wrong?”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Careful.”
There it was again.
That tiny hint of amusement.
A waiter appeared.
Dante ordered wine.
I ordered water.
“No alcohol?” he asked.
“I’d prefer to keep all my survival instincts operational.”
“You think you need them around me?”
“I think you have two armed men twenty feet away pretending not to watch us.”
Dante glanced toward them.
“Nico is terrible at pretending.”
“See?”
He smiled.
Dinner arrived without either of us ordering.
Pasta, grilled vegetables, bread, steak.
“You ordered for me?”
“I ordered options.”
“I hate mushrooms.”
He immediately pushed the mushroom dish away.
Something about that tiny gesture unsettled me.
Not because it was threatening.
Because it wasn’t.
“Why am I here, Dante?”
He leaned back.
“Because I wanted to see you again.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I usually understand people quickly.”
“And me?”
“You insulted me twice, refused my invitation, accused my employee of stalking you, and arrived twelve minutes late.”
“Cab driver took the wrong turn.”
“You came by cab?”
“Yes.”
His expression hardened.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“I should have sent a car.”
“I would have refused it.”
“I know.”
For several seconds, we simply looked at each other.
Then he asked, “What did you want before the diner?”
The question struck somewhere vulnerable.
“I wanted to become a nurse.”
“Wanted?”
“Past tense.”
“Why?”
“My mother got sick. Tuition became medical bills.”
“You quit school.”
“I postponed.”
“For three years?”
My jaw tightened.
“Did you investigate me?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“Your face.”
I looked away.
He was infuriatingly observant.
“I’m going back eventually.”
“When?”
“When eventually becomes affordable.”
Dante said nothing.
Dinner continued.
He asked about my mother.
I asked why he needed bodyguards.
He told me some questions were healthier unanswered.
I told him that sounded dramatically ridiculous.
He laughed again.
By dessert, I had forgotten to be afraid.
That was dangerous.
Because when Dante stopped looking like a criminal legend, I started noticing the man beneath it.
His dry humor.
His patience.
The fact that he listened instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
The strange sadness that occasionally appeared behind his eyes.
At 9:18, his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Everything changed.
The warmth vanished from his face.
“Nico.”
The bodyguard appeared instantly.
Dante stood.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Dante—”
“Now.”
Something in his tone stopped me.
Nico escorted me toward the elevator.
Behind us, three more men entered the restaurant.
One whispered into Dante’s ear.
Dante’s expression became lethal.
The elevator doors began closing.
Then I saw something.
A man near the bar.
Gray suit.
He was not looking at Dante.
He was looking at me.
And he was holding his phone horizontally.
Taking pictures.
“Wait.”
I pushed against the elevator doors.
Nico caught my wrist.
“What?”
“That man.”
I pointed.
The photographer saw me.
He ran.
Nico swore.
Dante turned.
The restaurant erupted.
Two Caruso men chased the stranger.
Dante reached me before I understood what was happening.
His hand closed around my waist and pulled me behind him.
“Did he photograph you?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“Why?”
Dante did not answer.
For the first time that evening, I saw genuine concern in his eyes.
Not for himself.
For me.
He looked toward Nico.
“Get her home.”
Then he looked at me.
“Clare, listen carefully. Tomorrow you do not go to work.”
“What?”
“Stay home.”
“Why?”
His gaze shifted toward the staircase where his men had disappeared after the photographer.
“Because someone just became interested in the one person I allowed to sit beside me.”
My blood went cold.
“Who?”
Dante’s expression darkened.
“My enemies.”
The elevator doors closed between us.
May you like
And suddenly I understood something far worse than being noticed by Dante Caruso.
Being noticed by the people who wanted him dead.
