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I snap my gaze to his.
“I am. Just—”
God. I’m not a weak person, but lately, that’s all I feel—weak.
“Just what, Bri?”
“Nothing.”
I sit up, pick up my less-than-hot coffee, and take a sip. I always order mine at kid’s temp. I’m not much of a sipper, and I’m too impatient to wait for it to cool down.
“Didn’t look like nothing?”
Before I can come up with another excuse, I hear a voice that has me flicking my eyes at the person standing in front of the barista at the checkout counter.
“This is wrong,” she complains. “I ordered skim milk. This”—she pushes her coffee, shoving it across the counter toward the kid standing behind it—“is not skim milk.”
“Ma’am,” the barista says calmly. “I assure you it’s correct. I made it myself.”
“Well,” she says condescendingly. “You made it wrong.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him like he disgusts her. I feel bad for the young boy. He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. He doesn’t need this bitch giving him so much grief. It’s just coffee.
Even if it is wrong, that’s no way to act or treat him or anyone for that matter.
“What a bitch,” I whisper under my breath.
Eric looks over his shoulder, and I swear I hear a grumble fall out of his mouth. He quickly turns back around, downing the rest of his coffee like it’s a double shot of whiskey he’s throwing back.
“Not a fan of your boyfriend’s future wife?” Eric asks.
“D is not my boyfriend,” I mumble.Anymore that is.Then it hits me what he said. My eyes snap to his. “Wait. What?”
“Your boy’s future misses.” He jerks his head toward Rebecca De Luca without looking away from me. “The bitch over there at the counter.”
“She’s not Drago’s future anything,” I snap, not caring about the sudden venom in my voice.
“That shit has been planned for ages, Detective.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“He’s Vincent Acerbi’s son.” Eric laughs, but it’s pissing me off. I don’t find anything coming out of his mouth funny at all. “Don’t you get that he’s supposed to fall into line—eventually?”
“D doesn’t want anything to do with his father. Or his father’s corrupt legacy.”
“Maybe not today.” Eric eyes me, gauging my reaction I imagine. “But how long before he does what his father demands of him—what’s expected of him? How long before he starts pedaling Diaz’s dope?”
“Never,” I bite out with so much conviction I nip the side of my cheek with my teeth.
“How sure are you?”
“I know him.”
“Are you sure?” he questions, making me second-guess myself. A part of me hates him for it. “What happens when he finds out that kid really is his? What do you think he’ll do to get his own flesh and blood back?”
“Anything and everything, I hope.”
And I mean that. I do hope he’ll do any means necessary to get his son back unharmed.
