Page 16 of Captivated

What in the hell did that mean?

THREE

WHAT WAS SUPPOSED to be only a day for Joe to get settled into New York with whatever the Marcellos wanted to provide him, turned into a week. Not that he minded—this was their show, after all, and he was just there to do a job for them when they wanted him to.

Nothing more, nothing less.

If they wanted to fuck about and extend their timeframe, then that was on them. As long as he still got paid, even if he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure on this job, then he didn’t care very damn much about the rest.

Besides, the week with no calls allowed Joe to do his favorite thing.

Roam, and people watch.

New York wasn’t all that different from Chicago, for the most part. Chicago was windier, and he recognized the streets better. He felt more at ease in Chicago—maybe a sense of protection that came with being an Outfit principe. It always followed him around there. New York didn’t afford him much in that sense, but at the same time, he liked that about it. He enjoyed that he could move almost freely with very little interference or worries.

Here, nobody knew him. Or … nobody that he ran into, anyway. It allowed him to move within the crowds without actually being seen, and visit places he hadn’t been before. Since he didn’t have any expectations on him, he allowed himself the privilege to explore and get comfortable in the city.

And then that had to end.

Like all good things.

Stepping into the small Brooklyn café, Joe did his cursory look at the bustling business. His gaze drifted over the people sitting in the booths, and at the tables in front of the windows. A line up of at least ten people between two cash registers was moving fast, it seemed. The place was modestly decorated with the usual cliché style of a café—coffee deco all the way.

Still rather comfortable, though.

Nobody paid any attention to the man in the leather jacket, and dark aviator sunglasses that stood just beyond the door. Joe glanced down to see he was standing on a latte-decorated welcome mat.

Figures.

How fucking cute.

The mat, that was.

Not the people.

Joe didn’t see anybody he recognized sitting at the tables, even though this was the address that had been texted to his phone the night before with nothing more than a time attached. Since the only people who knew he was in New York were his immediate family, his boss, and the Marcellos … he figured he could safely narrow down who was calling him in.

The Marcellos, that was.

Figuring he might have to stay a while since nobody was there yet, he stepped into line behind what seemed to be the faster of the two cash registers, and waited. A good five minutes passed before he was finally able to order.

Black coffee in hand—he couldn’t stand the taste when it was sweetened or creamy—Joe took a seat at the very back of the café. A few gazes came his way as he passed people by, but he didn’t pay them any mind.

People stared for one of two reasons.

His impressive size.

Or they liked the way he looked.

Either way, Joe didn’t much care as long as people didn’t try to actually engage him beyond the staring. He wasn’t much for chitchat, and certainly not with people he didn’t know. He much preferred to watch people, anyway.

That was more interesting to him.

Settling into one of the far tables, Joe leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet out to crisscross his leather boots at the ankles in the aisle. While a little rude as there was still a table to his left for someone to sit in—a small two-chair table—that was kind of the point. He didn’t want someone sitting next to him.

Too close.

Too bothersome.