Page 4

His sneer deepens, and his grip tightens. Then his other hand—still holding the cash—slides up my thigh, reaching for my ass.

I jerk back and try to kick him in the shin, but miss.

“Hey, listen up, you bitch. Don’t be a?—”

A sharp scrape of a chair against the floor cut through the air like a gunshot.

The man in the charcoal suit—the one who had been watching me earlier—is now standing behind my assailant. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowed as they flick between me and the drunk.

Up close, he’s even more imposing. Tall, broad-shouldered—the kind of build that comes from hours at the gym.

“You have three seconds to decide if that hand’s worth keeping.”

The words are spoken so softly I almost miss them. But something in his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The drunk hears it, too. His grip slackens, uncertainty cutting through his false bravado. I yank my hand free and step back, rubbing at the red marks he left behind.

Then the drunk turns and sees who’s standing behind him. He pales.

He tries to stand—fumbling, swaying.

And when the stranger steps forward, the drunk doesn’t just back down.

He flinches like a man who’s seen this type before.

The kind that doesn’t fight fair.

The kind that doesn’t lose.

“Leave.”

Just one word, but it lands with such quiet authority that my body obeys before my mind catches up. I step back, my pulse racing.

The tension crackles like a storm about to break—volatile, electric, and impossible to ignore. For a moment, I think the drunk might argue or even try to fight, but he tries to walk away.

When he does, the stranger grabs his wrist and twists it upward. I swear I hear the crack as I walk backward, watching the scene unfold. The drunk trembles and drops back into his seat. Just then, the stranger leans down and whispers something I can’t hear.

Whatever he says drains the last bit of color from the drunk’s face. He scrambles up again, nearly knocking over the chair and tripping over himself as he bolts out of the café.

I remain frozen, my wrist still throbbing where the drunk grabbed me. The stranger watches him go, his expression blank.

Before I can say anything, the manager appears beside me.

“Everything okay here, Chiara?” he asks, looking between me and the stranger with concern.

“Yes, it’s fine,” I say quickly, remembering to respond to my sister’s name.

“Take five if you need it,” he says, surprisingly soft for a guy who usually barks orders.

I nod and retreat into the kitchen, my legs shaky beneath me. Through the round window in the door, I watch the stranger return to his table.

He doesn’t sit. Instead, he slips on a black overcoat that somehow makes him look even more mysterious.

I exhale, my pulse still racing.

And then—I see him reach into his pocket, pull out a crisp bill, and set it on the drunken man’s table. The other guy forgot to leave a tip.

Not charity. A statement.