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My coffee’s gone cold. I’ve been sitting here too long, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Something about her movements—efficient but somehow still awkward and clumsy—keeps pulling my attention from the job at hand. She’s clearly not meant to work in this place, struggling to juggle plates, unlike the others who manage crockery as if it were an extension of their arm.

This isn’t like me. At thirty-eight, I’ve seen enough beautiful women to last several lifetimes. So why the fuck am I fixated on this one?

She moves between tables with a kind of hesitant grace, carrying plates stacked too high, teetering slightly when she turns corners. Twice now, she’s nearly collided with another server. There’s something genuine about her clumsiness that Ifind… refreshing. The women I know calculate every step, every word, every smile. Nothing authentic about them.

I take a sip of the bitter, cold coffee. The leather of my jacket creaks as I shift, checking my watch, and I take it off. D’Angelo’s men should have been here by now. Word on the street is they’re extending their loan shark operation into this neighborhood. My neighborhood. My men have been keeping tabs. They’re using this café and the alleys round back as a meeting hotspot, without any fear in their bodies. Who the fuck do they think they are?

People are already frightened. A family-owned bakery three blocks down shuttered last week after the owner’s son had his fingers broken. Message received—pay up or suffer. The kid didn’t know he wasn’t borrowing from us. D’Angelo’s men are feigning identities, and I’m going to put a stop to it.

I’ve built my empire on different principles. When people fear you too much, they become unpredictable and desperate. Fear works better as a spice, not the main ingredient.

Besides, I’m the only king around here. If D’Angelo thinks he can expand his operations into my territory, he’s gravely mistaken.

The bell above the door jingles. I tense, expecting to see one of D’Angelo’s thugs, but it’s just an elderly couple shuffling in. The waitress—her nametag reads “Chiara”—practically skips over to them, her smile widening.

“Good afternoon! How can I help you today?” Her voice carries across the café, light and warm.

I watch as she guides them to a corner table, pulling out the chair for the old woman with genuine care. Chiara. The name fits her—clear, bright. She stays at their table, talking, laughing at something the old man says, touching his shoulder lightly. Five minutes pass before she takes their order, and not once does she check the time or show impatience.

She sees people. Really sees them.

I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me that way—like I was a person, not a threat or an opportunity. In my world, you’re either predator or prey. Nothing in between.

I return my attention to the street outside, scanning for faces I recognize. That’s when I spot him—Luca Belli, one of D’Angelo’s collectors. He’s standing across the street, half-hidden in a doorway, but I know that rat-like face. His eyes are fixed on the café window, and for a second, I think he’s spotted me. But his gaze isn’t tracking my movements. He’s watching something else.

Someone else.

I follow his line of sight directly to Chiara.

Fuck.

The coincidence is too perfect. I’m here hunting D’Angelo’s men, and they’re hunting… her? The timing makes my skin crawl. I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in my line of work.

I catch Belli checking his watch, then speaking into a phone. A minute later, he slinks toward the café entrance. The bell jingles, and he changes colors. I watch as he stumbles into a seat.

Is he acting… drunk?

I observe him carefully over the rim of my coffee cup. He’s not here for the food. His eyes never leave Chiara. There’s something predatory in his gaze that makes my hand instinctively drift toward the gun holstered beneath my jacket.

This isn’t my concern. I’m here to watch, to plan—not to wade into someone else’s mess.

But then again… why the hell do I care if she’s scared? Why is my pulse kicking up, watching his eyes track her ass like a fucking predator?

When Chiara approaches his table, I notice the slight stiffening of her shoulders. Her smile becomes fixed, professional. She knows him. Or at least, she knows what men like him represent. Trouble.

He says something, and I watch in horror as he grabs her hand.

She stiffens the moment he touches her. The mask stays on, but her eyes betray her. Fear, swallowed. Survival mode.

No one moves. Cowards, all of them.

By the time I’m behind him, Belli’s too deep in his performance to notice the danger at his back. But she sees me. Her eyes find mine—wide, desperate—and she doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t have to.

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

He freezes. Then slowly turns. When he sees me, the color drains from his face like I flipped a switch. His hand drops from her like it’s been burned.