Chapter 2 - The Price of a FavorThe sirens wailed closer, their red-and-blue strobe lights slicing through the tall Victorian windows of the Victoria, painting the overturned tables and shattered crystal in alternating washes of crimson and indigo.
Inside the restaurant, the atmosphere had shifted from active panic to a terrified, breathless paralysis. The remaining diners huddled beneath linen-draped tables or pressed themselves against the oak-paneled walls, too afraid to move toward the exits.
Aldo emerged from behind the bar, his face the color of wet plaster, holding an old-fashioned copper frying pan like a club. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Miller bleeding out on the floor, flanked by Dante’s silent, professional shadows who were already efficiently kicking the dropped firearms under nearby booths.
“Dante,” Aldo wheezed, lowering the frying pan by a fraction of an inch. “Not here. My lease... the Board of Health... the police are two blocks away.”
Dante didn't look at Aldo. His gaze remained locked entirely on me. His thumb was still resting against my lower lip, his touch surprisingly warm against the chill of shock setting into my bones.
“Your restaurant is safe, Aldo,” Dante said, his voice level and reassuring, though it carried an undeniable weight of command. “The back exit is clear. Get your staff out through the alley. Tell them a gas leak caused a commotion. I’ll handle the precinct report.”
Aldo swallowed hard, glanced at me, and then nodded curtly. He knew better than to argue with Dante Rocco. In this city, men like Dante didn't answer to the police; the police answered to the men who paid for their reelection campaigns.
“Kid,” Aldo muttered, gesturing frantically toward me with his chin. “In the back. Now.”
I tried to step back, but my boots seemed welded to the floor. My heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had just used a bloody, desperate kiss to save a mafia boss from a point-blank assassination attempt, and now I was standing in a crime scene smelling of spilled Brunello and iron.
“I—I have to finish my shift,” I stammered, my voice sounding impossibly small even to my own ears.
Dante let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. He lowered his hand from my face, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second against my chin before he turned to one of his guards.
“Vance, escort the young woman to my car. Make sure she isn't followed.”
“No,” I snapped, stepping back and crossing my arms over my black apron. The shock was beginning to curdle into cold, stubborn anger—the same anger that kept me waking up at 5:00 a.m. every morning. “I’m not going anywhere with your thugs. I have an apartment to get back to, rent to pay, and a sister waiting for dinner. I’m a waitress, Mr. Rocco, not a soldier in your private war.”
A lesser man would have frowned, raised his voice, or threatened me.
Dante Rocco simply tilted his head, studying me with those sharp, gray eyes as though I were a fascinating, newly discovered specimen.
“You just saved my life, Isidora,” he said quietly, stepping closer so that I could smell the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and woodsmoke clinging to his lapel. “In my world, favors of that magnitude are currency. And I don’t like being in debt.”
“Consider us even,” I retorted, my chin lifting defensively. “You didn't shoot me, and I didn't let your head get blown off. We’re quits.”
Before Dante could reply, the sharp screech of police cruisers pulling up directly in front of the Victoria’s double doors cut through the air. Heavy boots slammed against the pavement outside.
“Sir!” one of Dante’s guards hissed, stepping urgently toward the window. “NYPD tactical unit. Front and back exits are closing in thirty seconds.”
Dante’s eyes never left mine. Without breaking contact, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy, dark-metal business card embossed with a single stylized letter R, and slipped it neatly into the pocket of my apron.
“You live on 42nd Street in Queens,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “Third floor, apartment 3B. Your sister’s name is Helena. She likes strawberry pastries from the bakery down the block.”
My blood ran instantly cold. My breath caught in my throat.
“How... how do you know that?” I whispered, terror gripping my stomach with icy claws.
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“I notice everything that matters,” Dante murmured softly as the front glass doors of the restaurant began to shatter under the battering ram of the police entry. “Pack a bag, Isidora. Because by morning, Miller’s bosses won't just be looking for me. They’ll be looking for the girl who kissed him to death.”
Before I could scream or demand an explanation, Dante turned sharply, vaulted over the low mahogany service partition toward the kitchen, and vanished into the shadows just as the first helmeted police officer burst through the front entrance shouting, “Nobody move! NYPD! Drop your weapons!”
