"Who did this?" he demands.
"Like you do not know." I scoff, throwing my dirty rag onto the hood of his shiny black SUV. "The Bellantis. They rolled through spraying bullets at a silver sedan. Missed the sedan entirely. Nailed my deep fryer. It is a tragedy of epic culinary proportions."
His eyes darken. His beard twitches as his jaw sets. The small scar at his collarbone shifts with the sudden, harsh intake of his breath.
"You are injured," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher. Darker.
"I am annoyed," I correct him. "I have a scrape on my knee and a ruined business. Do not act like you care. You just want to clear your territory or whatever it is you people do."
"My people," he repeats slowly.
"The Costas, I assume. Unless there is a third mob family running the South Side that I am unaware of."
He does not smile or confirm or deny. He just keeps staring at me with that fracturing focus. The cold operator from two minutes ago is gone. The man standing in front of me is no longer a calculated commander; he is a wild predator who just found something he intends to keep.
"What is your name?" he asks.
"None of your business."
"Your name." The gravel in his tone leaves room for argument.
I lift my chin. "Gemma. Gemma Torres."
He repeats it. Just a faint rumble in his broad chest. "Gemma."
He looks at the truck. He looks at the bullet holes. He looks at the smeared salsa on my apron. The tactical assessment returns, but it is no longer directed at the street. It is directed at the threat to me.
He reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a matte-black phone. He dials a single number, holding the device to his ear. He does not look away from me.
"Send the cleaners to the South Side intersection," he orders into the phone. "Bring a flatbed. Tow a pink food truck to the secure lot at the compound. Nobody touches the interior."
He hangs up. He slides the phone back into his pocket.
"Excuse me?" I demand, my hands dropping to my hips. "You are not towing my truck anywhere. I need to call my insurance. I need to file a police report."
"The police are not coming, Gemma."
"There are literally sirens right now."
"They are being rerouted." He takes the final step, closing the distance. His frame eclipses the streetlamp. "Your truck belongs to my family's lot now. Your insurance will not cover an organized crime drive-by. You will get zero dollars from them."
"Then I will sue the city. I will sue you. I will sue the Bellantis."
"You will do none of those things." His dark eyes track the movement of my lips. "The Bellantis will circle back. They left a job unfinished. They do not leave witnesses."
The fight in my chest stutters. Just for a fraction of a second. "I am a taco vendor. Not a witness."
"You saw the cars. You are alive in the crossfire." His broad chest rises and falls. The oversized gold watch glints as he raises his hand. For a wild second, I think he is going to touch my face. His fingers, rough and calloused, hover just an inch from my cheek. He traces the air over the smear of flour. "They will come back to finish the job."
"Then I will go home. Lock my doors."
"A wooden door will not stop automatic gunfire." He finally drops his hand. The loss of his body heat from that hovering touch leaves my skin cold. "You are coming with me."
"I am not getting into a black SUV with a mafia enforcer."
"I am not an enforcer. I am the guard."
"I do not care if you are the Pope. I am staying right here."
