He picks up his espresso, takes a sip, and immediately grimaces.
“Christ. Still terrible.” He sets it down. “Thirty years I’ve been coming here, and they still can’t make a decent cup.”
I don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like a question.
“How’s that going?” he asks instead. “Working for him.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Careful answer.”
His gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary.
“Raffaele likes careful,” he adds. “Means you might last longer than the others.”
The others.
I don’t ask what he means, and he doesn’t offer anything further. Just watches me, that same faintly amused look in his eyes, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort.
Behind him, the two men haven’t moved.
“You know what I like about this place?” he asks suddenly. “Nobody bothers me. No calls, no problems. Just bad coffee and food that’s barely worth the plate it’s on. Sometimes that’s enough.
“Tell Raffaele the coffee here is still terrible. And that Nico wants to talk to him about Moreno—the son, not the father. That one’s a son of a bitch. Sooner rather than later.”
He lifts the cup, studies it like it personally offended him.
“Before he asks—yes, I know I keep coming back anyway. Old habits.”
I nod, committing it to memory. “Who’s Nico?”
“My son. You’ll meet him eventually.”
The pause that follows communicates more than the words.
He lifts a hand in dismissal.
I start to stand, reaching for the briefcase—then stop, remembering. I slide it across the floor instead, toward him. He doesn’t look at it.
“Miss Mendez.”
I pause halfway up.
“Interesting choice Raffaele’s making.”
I wait.
Nothing else comes.
“Have a nice walk back.”
The afternoon sun is too bright after the dim restaurant interior. I squint against it, walking back toward the office on autopilot while my mind races.
Interesting choice.
What choice? Keeping me alive instead of killing me? Making me his assistant instead of burying me in a shallow grave somewhere?
I consider asking Raffaele.
