1. NIKOLAI #2
“Morning, sugar! I’m Lyla.”
The voice scraped down my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It grated against the rough edges of my exhaustion. Too cheery. Too sweet. And way too Southern for Manhattan. I clenched my jaw, already regretting the decision to sit here.
“What can I get you started with this morning? Hmm. You know, I heard the weatherman say it’s gonna be a gorgeous fall day after the rain clears out and the fog burns off.
He said it might even hit sixty later this afternoon and that we’re gonna have a couple of sunny days.
You know, with Halloween being tomorrow and falling on a Friday this year, all the kids are gonna lose their minds.
No school the next day, just candy and chaos.
Perfect for trick-or-treating. Dontcha think? ”
Jesus Christ.
I didn’t even have to look up to know she was smiling. Anyone this chipper before six a.m. was either a psychopath or a problem.
I dropped the corner of the paper just enough to get a look at her.
She had wild blonde hair tied up in some kind of messy ponytail, and there was a wicked curve to her lips that was way too inviting for a girl who clearly didn’t know the sort of man she was standing in front of.
Her eyes? Blue as a glacier melt and twice as dangerous—the kind of pretty that made men stupid.
I clocked her instantly: young and na?ve, with legs that belonged on a stage, and a thick country drawl dripping off every syllable. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.
Not my type. My women were usually tall, long-legged, and smart enough to keep their mouths shut—women who liked fucking but didn’t want to hang around long enough for a conversation. But this girl? She was pure temptation wrapped in inexperience. The kind of innocent that begged to be corrupted.
I stared at her like she was a bug I hadn’t decided whether or not to crush.
“Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit,” I snapped, flicking the paper back up between us.
There was a pause. A long one. Then she responded in a saccharine tone, “Well, bless your heart. I’ll be sure to add a shot of decency to that order.”
I stiffened.
She headed for a table by the window before I could snap back, but every cell in my body wanted to. Who the hell did this nobody waitress with an attitude think she was?
I subtly turned the paper, pretending to keep reading, but watched her in my periphery. She moved like she owned the damn floor. She was totally unaware she’d walked into a hunting ground, that the eyes tracking her weren’t admiring the view but calculating the distance. She was oblivious to me.
And the way she chatted it up at that table of theater wannabes like she was fucking auditioning for a Broadway production made my temples throb.
That southern accent clung to her every word like syrup to waffles, and I didn’t even need her address to know she was a hick from some flyspeck town that thought Applebee’s was fine dining.
She’d probably grown up barefoot, catching lightning bugs and thinking New York was where dreams come true.
What the hell had Carmine been thinking, hiring someone like her in a place like this?
But then…she laughed. Soft, bright, unfiltered—like nothing in the world ever made her sad.
It was so fucking genuine it threw me off.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that.
Hell, I wasn’t sure I ever had. And now I was wondering what it would feel like to be the reason a woman smiled like that, to live in a world where happiness came from something as simple as serving coffee to strangers.
I folded the paper and laid it on the table, narrowing my eyes as she moved toward the bar.
Behind the counter, Trina, my usual server, stood with her arms crossed, glaring at the girl.
Her gaze was keen, missing nothing. Her dark hair was pinned back perfectly, her black apron crisp, and she carried herself like someone who knew how to follow orders—or give them.
She was mafia through and through—not by blood, but by understanding.
She knew exactly who Carmine was, what Cipher really was.
She’d been here since Luca first set up the lease with Carmine.
When Lyla moved from the table she was waiting on and started entering her orders into the terminal at the counter, Trina caught my eye and gave me a subtle nod before shifting her focus to Lyla.
The difference between the two waitresses was night and day.
Trina leaned in toward Lyla, lips tight, and then let her have it.
Lyla’s face twisted as she was scolded. Then she said something back—too quick, too loud. Trina didn’t flinch, just tilted her head and stared her down like a cat watching a mouse.
I slid my phone out of my jacket pocket, resting my arm on the edge of the table. I scrolled through messages, feigning disinterest, but my eyes never left Lyla.
One of the baristas handed off my drink to her, and Trina pointed toward my table like she was handing down a sentence.
Lyla took the cup, slapped on the fakest fucking smile I’d ever seen, and made her way back to my table—swinging her hips like she was in a beauty pageant.
She set the cup down in front of me with all the grace of a stage performer, her hand brushing mine just enough to send a jolt straight to my groin.
“Here you go, darlin’. One piping hot cup of silence, just how you like it.”
I didn’t look up, just waved her off with two fingers, the universal signal for get lost.
She didn’t move, waiting for a reply I wouldn’t make.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Sunshine,” she finally said, her tone honey-sweet with a shot of venom.
Slowly and deliberately, I dragged my attention away from my phone.
Our gazes locked. “Tell me,” I said, raking my eyes over her from head to toe, “do all the girls from whatever backwoods shithole you crawled out of flap their mouths this much? Is that how they taught you to speak at the Possum Hollow Charm School?”
Unfair? Absolutely. But exhaustion had no filter. I was running on fumes and fury, and between the sleepless nights, the constant lies, and the bodies piling up, I’d snapped. So I’d aimed my bitterness at the nearest target. And Lyla had taken the hit.
Her smile dropped.
Then came the fire.
She leaned in, placing her hand on the center of the table, and with a voice low and sweet enough to rot teeth, she purred, “Well now, isn’t that rich, coming from a man who speaks English like he’s strangling on barbed wire.
That accent’s thicker than your skull and twice as arrogant.
Tell me, is demeaning women the national pastime where you’re from?
What’s next? Teaching women their place with your fists and calling it culture ? ”
My jaw ticced.
But she wasn’t finished. Moving close enough that I could feel her breath on my lips, she said, “And while we’re judging accents, you might wanna wipe that murdery glint outta your eyes, mister.
You aren’t foolin’ anyone with your expensive suit and newspaper.
You look more like a Johnny Cash wannabe thug than anyone with an ounce of class.
What are you, some KGB reject because you couldn’t spell intelligence even if it were carved into your vodka bottle?
Did you flunk out of spy school and have to settle for criminal work instead? ”
I leaned back, studying her with fresh eyes.
She wasn’t stupid. Just dangerously unaware.
A little lamb, tempting the wolf.
“You talk a lot for someone so…breakable.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You threatening me, Boris?”
“I don’t threaten.” I smirked. “I promise.”
She straightened and crossed her arms. “You think you’re scary, but I’ve known worse men with dirtier hands and prettier lies than you, men who don’t need a Russian accent to make a girl afraid. I’ve met frat boys with more bark than you.”
I let a slow smirk pull at my mouth. “You’ve known boys who play rough. I’m not a boy. And I don’t play.”
She bit her bottom lip. Nervous tic or calculated move, I couldn’t tell, but it drew my eyes down to that goddamn mouth of hers. Soft. Full. Screaming to be ruined.
“You’re full of yourself,” she snapped, clearly catching my stare. “But let me guess. You think girls like me should be seen and not heard, right?”
“No,” I said coolly. “I think girls like you should be fucked face down until that pretty mouth learns when to stay busy and when to stay silent—until obedience stops being a choice.”
Her lips parted. Shock, maybe. Rage, definitely.
She hated me. I could see it all over her. And still, my cock stirred like it wanted to teach that mouth its place. So much fire in such a tiny thing. I wanted to throw gasoline on her ire—watch her burn and beg at the same time.
Before she had a chance to unload on me, Carmine barreled out of the back like he’d been summoned by Satan himself.
“Miss Oakley!” he shouted, loudly enough for the entire place to hear. “Back counter. Now.”
She shot me one last glare but didn’t argue, just spun on her heel and stalked off, muttering something about fascists and psychopaths.
Carmine, already sweating, turned to me and ran a hand down his face. His tie was crooked, and the color in his cheeks said he knew damn well how badly she’d overstepped.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Volkov,” he said in a low voice. “She’s new on mornings—been working lunches mostly, when family men are never around. She’s not used to…your sort.”
I arched a brow.
“She came with good references,” he rushed on. “I hired her quick—small-town girl, desperate for work. Sweet manners, good with the regulars. You know how people are—they like a little charm with their caffeine. I thought she’d be harmless.”
I reached for my cup. “You thought wrong.”
“I can let her go,” he offered.
“No,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “Don’t.”
His brow furrowed. “Sir?”
“She needs the money. Holes in her jeans say enough. Let her keep it. Just make sure she understands her place.”
“Absolutely.” He nodded quickly. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll be properly dressed, respectful, and in the back when you come in. You have my word.”
“I’m sure she’ll dive behind the espresso machine next time.” I chuckled, standing and folding The Times under my arm.
Carmine offered me a sheepish grin. “She’s usually a favorite, believe it or not. Got half the old bastards in here tipping double just to hear her say sugar . But I’ll make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable.”
“See that she doesn’t.”
He dipped his head and turned, already straightening his sleeves like a man about to serve justice. As I reached the door, his voice—low, sharp, and commanding—carried from the back of the shop.
I glanced back.
Carmine was laying into her, gesturing with clipped movements. But she just stood there, chin high, arms crossed, not flinching. And that mouth of hers was moving like she was giving him hell right back.
Defiant. Proud.
Fucking suicidal.
She didn’t understand this world.
She didn’t understand me.
But she would.
I stepped outside and turned toward the street, then slowed. I lit another cigarette around the cup in my hand and leaned against the bricks at the edge of the window. The smoke drifted up as I watched her through the glass.
She was laughing at something Carmine said. There was that fake smile again. Or maybe not fake. I wasn’t sure. I watched the way her hands moved, the way she talked with them. She was animated, expressive, like everything she said was a performance.
Lyla was a lamb in a city of wolves.
And I had just caught her scent.