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“To do my job and get home,” he says. “You have to come with me.”
“And if I don’t?”
He twines his fingers together and bends them back, the knuckles popping loudly. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Eve Furino. You know what will happen.”
Just like my father said in my apartment this morning. I don’t have a choice.
At the second to last stop before the bus leaves town, the man stands up, moves to the aisle, and motions for me to lead the way off the bus. I think about calling out for help from one of the passengers, but they can’t help me. They are innocent people, half-asleep or wrangling children. None of them are equipped to fight off a trained assassin. So, I walk off the bus, and immediately notice a black car with deeply tinted windows parked along the curb. The man points over my shoulder at the car and then pushes the same finger in the center of my back.
“Move. Ivan is waiting.”
To keep my mind busy, I search for escape routes as we drive, imagining myself jumping from the car and rolling across the road, sprinting into traffic to escape. But the doors are child-locked. Plus, I know the man won’t hesitate to shoot and kill me. Even if I managed to get the door open and get out, he would put a bullet in my back before I could take a step.
When I look over, he is staring at me, eyes gray and lifeless, his pointer finger curling against his thigh—only a few inches from where his gun is hidden—like he is pulling a trigger.
* * *
The car pulls up to the back doors of The Floating Crown. The man gets out without a word and extends a hand to me like I would actually let him help me out. I glare at him as I slide past, but he doesn’t notice or care. He roughly grabs my elbow and shoves me through the kitchen’s back door.
Cal Higgs is back in the kitchen, barking orders at Felix, who in the few seconds I observe him looks remarkably more competent than he was last night. Cal looks up when the doors slam shut, but he looks away just as quickly. Clearly, he is part of this plan. Or, at least knows enough about it to understand he should stay out of the way.
Makayla, however, looks horrified to see me. Her eyes are wide, and she tries to wave me over, but I just shake my head. She is a nice girl, and I don’t want her anywhere near this man or the mafia baggage that comes with being part of my life.
“Cook something,” the man says, shoving me forward. I stumble, catching myself on the corner of a cabinet, the metal corner scraping the palm of my hand. A small trickle of blood flows down my fingers, and I narrow my eyes at the man, but he is unaffected. “Whatever you make that is best.”
I don’t know what the plan is, but I do know making another lackluster meal will not help my situation in any way. So, I scan the kitchen for what is on the menu tonight, and after seeing fresh mussels near Felix’s station, I settle on the scoglio I mentioned to the drunk the night before. Seafood pasta is always a hit, and it fills a large plate, which means no one can complain about the serving size being too small.
The man hovers over me as I cook, staying no more than two feet away at all times, his hand resting on his gun. At first, it is hard to focus with him peering over my shoulder, but as I ease into the familiar rhythm of cooking, I can forget about him for several minutes at a time.
The kitchen has always been my happy place. No matter what is going on in life or how things might be falling apart, people have to eat. Cooking was something I could count on several times a day. A guaranteed chunk of time where I could get away from whatever scheme my father was planning with his men or whatever feud they were dealing with and cook. It became my escape.
“Are you almost done?” he snaps, pulling me back into the reality of the moment.
I sigh. “Unless you want whoever is going to eat this to have food poisoning, I’m going to need a few more minutes.”
The man growls under his breath, but stays quiet while I finish the meal and plate it up. I swirl oil around the rim of the plate, top it with freshly cracked black pepper, and slide the plate across the counter to him. “There you go.”
He shakes his head. “No, you are taking it out there.”
“I’m not in uniform,” I say, looking down at my jeans and plain t-shirt.
“You had a bag with you. What’s in there?” he asks. His eyes catch on my chest. “Maybe something a little less nun-like? Ivan is going to want a taste of more than just the food.”
A disgusting shiver runs through me, and I shake my head. “I only packed another pair of jeans.”
The man purses his lips and then reaches out and pinches my apron between his fingers. “Take off your jeans and wear this.”
“Just my apron?” I ask, eyes wide. I shake my head. “I can’t. My entire ass will be on display.”
The man looks at me like that wouldn’t be such a bad thing and shrugs. “Wear the apron or walk out naked.”
I stare at him, wishing more than anything I could jab both my fingers into his eyeballs, but he just stares at me with the same cocky smile until I march back to the employee locker area. The man follows me, leaning against the door frame to watch me change. I refuse to give him the pleasure.
I take off the robe, turn it sideways, and wrap it around myself like a skirt. The man never saidhowI had to wear the robe, though based on his scowl, he is wishing he’d been more specific. I wrap the neck and waist ties around my waist, so they look like a chunky matching belt, and then slide my jeans out from underneath. I move over to stand in the mirror, and the whole look isn’t half bad. The apron skirt is much shorter than I would normally wear, especially for work, but my ass isn’t hanging out, which feels like a very small win in the middle of a shitty situation. I turn back to the man.
“Can I get this over with now?”
He peruses my outfit for a moment and then steps aside with a scowl, gesturing for me to carry on. I hurry past him, grab the plate from the counter without looking at any of my coworkers, and walk into the dining room, fully aware that, no matter what has happened already on this shitty day, whatever happens next is going to be much, much worse.
