Dark, empty eyes scan the street.
He does not look at my ruined food truck or the smashed salsa containers on the sidewalk. He does not look at me.
He clears the space.
His movements are calculated. A machine operating on pure tactical assessment. He points two fingers toward the northern alley. Two men break off and vanish into the dark. He gestures toward the roofline of the abandoned building across the street. Another man raises a rifle, checking the sightline.
He treats my destroyed livelihood like a coordinate on a tactical grid—a battlefield objective to be cleared.
Anger, hot and fierce, spikes over my initial shock. He thinks he can just roll in here and take over the street? He thinks he can ignore the devastation of my business? Please. I have dealt with territorial men my entire life. Broad shoulders and a lethal,rugged beard do not give him a free pass to treat my disaster zone like his personal playground.
I march forward. The glass under my boots grinds loudly into the pavement.
"Hey," I snap.
He does not flinch. He does not turn his head. He continues tracking the sightlines down the southern block.
"Hey. G.I. Joe. Are you deaf?"
A man in a suit steps toward me, raising a hand. "Ma'am, step back."
"I am not stepping back," I bark, glaring at the suit before turning my attention back to the towering man ignoring me. "This is my permit zone. That is my truck bleeding coolant all over the storm drain. And you and your little tactical squad are currently tracking broken glass all over my ruined cilantro."
The man freezes.
The clinical sweep stops. The tactical assessment halts.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head.
His dark eyes lock onto mine.
The stillness of his body is terrifying. He does not blink. He does not offer a polite apology. He just stares. The cold detachment in those hard eyes strains under mounting pressure. Something else presses against it from behind, not breaking through—not yet—but unmistakably there. Something dark. Something too focused.
The street goes dead silent. The men in suits stop moving. The distant sirens fade into nothingness.
The wind kicks up again, blasting that scent of gun oil and black coffee directly into my lungs. He takes one slow step toward me. The oversized gold watch catches the light again.
He studies the flour on my cheek. He tracks the salsa stains on my apron. His hungry gaze drags down the curve of my hips, the sturdy stance of my boots, and snaps right back up to my face.
A muscle feathers along his bearded jaw.
"Your truck," he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp.
"My truck," I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest. I refuse to cower. I refuse to back down. "Three years of my life. Ruined. Because you mafia assholes cannot shoot straight."
The men in the suits tense. One of them reaches for his weapon.
The mountain simply raises a single, tattooed finger. The men freeze instantly.
He does not break eye contact with me. He steps closer. His mountain of muscle eclipses the streetlamp. Shadows fall over my face. The heat radiating off his broad chest combats the chill of the Chicago night.
"You were inside." It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. A realization dropping like a lead weight in the space between us.
"Obviously." I gesture wildly to the bullet holes riddling the pink metal of La Diosa. "I was prepping for the late-night rush. Now I am prepping for bankruptcy."
He takes another step. He is too close now. The scent of rain-soaked concrete is magnetic. The violent energy rolling off himdemands submission and caution, along with a healthy dose of fear.
I refuse to give him any of it.
