2. LYLA
Chapter two
I didn’t flinch when Carmine’s bark cut through Cipher like a shotgun blast. But Lord, did I feel the air shift. People stilled. Conversations ceased. Every spoon froze mid-stir.
He came at me with that mean-old-man vibe. Carmine was the kind who’d scare you just for fun and to make you feel bad for not saying “Yes, sir.”
But I wasn’t afraid of him. Not even close.
From the moment I’d walked into this place practically begging for a job, he’d been all grumbles and gruffness. But I’d smiled sweetly, called him sir , and laid the charm on thick. He’d hired me on the spot. Since then, we’d butted heads a few times, but mostly, we’d figured each other out.
Carmine wouldn’t say it out loud, but he liked me, and I got the impression that, deep down, he viewed me like the daughter he’d never had.
I made the regulars laugh, soothed the tempers of the most challenging customers, and handled chaos with a grin.
He’d figured out quickly that I wasn’t just sunshine and small talk— I worked .
Hard. I scrubbed drains, cleaned out the rancid milk trap, and took the worst shifts without complaint.
And Carmine? He might puff up like a guard dog, but when it came to me, he was a marshmallow.
Well, until today apparently. He looked pissed, for real.
“Miss Oakley,” he snapped, storming out of the back like smoke billowing from a fire. “Back counter. Now.”
I squared my shoulders, raised my chin high, and gave a parting glare to the man in black. Bastard.
Spinning on my heel, I muttered under my breath, “Dictators and psychopaths get their coffee black and silent. Got it.”
Behind me, Carmine’s steps thundered—but instead of following me, he veered toward the man.
That was odd.
I parked myself at the front counter, trying not to pace.
My fingers itched for something to do, so I busied myself scrubbing a nonexistent smear on the glass cake dome just to give my hands a task.
Then I wiped the perfectly clean bartop and rearranged the to-go lids.
Anything to stop myself from glancing toward the broody Russian man’s table like a guilty kid in church.
Trina slid past me quickly as she moved to take an order. “Girl,” she muttered, half amused, half horrified, “you’re in trouble now. He’s not gonna let you talk your way out of this one.”
My stomach sank a little.
I risked a sideways look. Carmine stood next to the man’s table, leaning in, speaking low. I couldn’t hear a word, but I didn’t need to. The way Carmine’s head ducked and the slight tilt of his shoulders spoke volumes. He was apologizing. Crap.
I’d never seen that from Carmine. Ever.
Whatever the man was saying, it made Carmine nod—twice—and keep his tone level like he was trying to defuse a bomb.
Something was seriously off.
I swallowed and smoothed my apron.
Trina gave me a look that said I should start praying.
My hands moved on their own, lining up the sugar packets like they were soldiers. Every second dragged. Whoever that man was, he had Carmine sweating.
And now I’d gone and mouthed off to him. I’d clearly screwed up.
Awesome.
The man got up, and Carmine quickly corralled me by the bar like I was a misbehaving pup. “Do you have any idea who that man is?” he asked.
“I didn’t catch his name,” I said with a huff. “Didn’t seem polite to ask since he was such an…an… Well, let’s just say his people skills might need an exorcism.”
Carmine didn’t blink. “He’s not the kind of man you question or piss off. He’s the kind of man you hope never knows your name. Russian. Mafia. The kind that makes bodies vanish before sunrise.”
A chill crept down my spine. Not because I believed in boogeymen. I didn’t.
At least not until one had looked me dead in the eye and ordered his coffee to go.
He was flesh, blood, and something wicked enough to make my thighs clench.
“Carmine, I—”
“This isn’t Cosby, Tennessee,” he said sharply. “You don’t antagonize men like that up here. Not unless you’re suicidal or have a bulletproof soul. Hell, girl, people disappear in this city for less.”
I swallowed. Hard.
“I was just standing up for myself.”
“You were being reckless. I offered to fire you to make amends,” he growled.
“I get that you’re new on the morning shift and normally don’t wait on those types of customers.
But regardless, you can’t get in people’s faces with smart-ass remarks.
I know you’re usually good with customers.
But don’t confuse likability with invincibility. ”
I folded. A little. “I’m sorry, Carmine. I’ll do better. I swear. Normally, I don’t let customers like him rile me up. He was just such a jerk. And you know I work hard.”
He eyed me for a beat. “That’s the only reason you still have a job.”
My shoulders relaxed half an inch. “So I’m not fired?”
He grumbled something under his breath in Italian, then waved a hand. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I grinned and popped a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, boss.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered, heading back toward the kitchen. “Next time, remember where you are.”
The second he disappeared, Trina leaned over, one brow raised. “You got a death wish, sugarplum?”
I blinked. “What?”
Trina just stared at me, her expression flat like she was waiting for my brain to catch up.
“I mean, sure, I gave that man a little attitude,” I said, “but it’s not like I spit in his coffee.” I paused, narrowing my eyes. “Wait—what exactly are you saying?”
Trina leaned in a little closer. “I saw how you looked at him.” She shook her head and frowned. “That kind of man? Fuck around, and you’ll find out.”
I rolled my eyes. “You think I’m scared of the big bad wolf? What’s he going to do, steal me away in the dead of night, tie bricks to my feet, and throw me in the Hudson?”
She snorted. “That wolf’ll eat you alive. Don’t play cute with mafia types unless you want your pretty face rearranged. You smile at men like that, you’d better be ready to choke on the consequences.”
“Oh, please.” I laughed, flipping a rag over my shoulder. “Mafioso is just a TV trope. Overdramatized bad guys with pinky rings and daddy issues. That guy? Could you imagine him being some kind of Godfather? Ridiculous.”
Trina didn’t laugh. She shook her head again and grimaced, like I’d pained her.
“Yeah, that guy?” she said, her voice dipping lower.
“Carmine doesn’t take such good care of men like him for no reason.
You saw how he was sweating. You also know Carmine doesn’t take much shit under his own roof. So, you put two and two together.”
That shivery feeling returned, snaking along my spine and curling around my ribs. But I would continue to stand my ground. I always did.
When I was ten, Miss Minerva, the old fortune teller who lived alone up in the holler, had told me, “ You’ll never be harmed when danger stares you down, long as you never blink first. ” She was half blind, wore brightly colored scarves, smoked menthols like they were holy sacraments, and swore the stars whispered secrets through her window at night.
People said she was crazy—and maybe she was—but half the county still drove up that winding dirt road to sit in her parlor and ask what the spirits saw. And damn if she wasn’t always right.
She’d said I was born under a warrior’s moon. That I was meant to chase storms, walk into fire, and never run. That real danger wouldn’t touch me—so long as I met it head on.
I had taken that to heart.
Ever since, I hadn’t been afraid to take risks.
I’d learned how to perform ten or twenty feet above stages on aerial silks, chased Broadway dreams with nothing but a suitcase and my own tenacity, and pushed through the grief of losing my mama, daddy, and sister without breaking.
I’d taken every dare and opportunity life had thrown my way—dancing, tumbling, riding bareback, mouthing off to men who thought “no” meant “maybe”—and I’d done it all with my chin up.
People said I was brave. Truth was, I believed in my heart that I was untouchable.
And maybe that was why I hadn’t flinched when Carmine and Trina told me I’d just pissed off Mr. Dangerous.
Maybe that was why I smiled.
Because part of me knew that fear was not a part of my destiny. That was how I lived. No seat belt. No backup plan. Just heart, hustle, and a little bit of hellfire. I wasn’t built for shrinking. I was built for burning through whatever tried to hold me back.
That was my life now. By sunrise, I poured oat milk lattes for actors dreaming of Tonys. After dark, I danced for devils and didn’t care if they ever noticed me—until now.
Now, I’d love nothing more than to have that man’s eyes on me.
God help me .
The angrier I’d made him, the more heat had shot straight between my thighs. What was wrong with me?
Even back home, I’d always been drawn to the bad ones—the ones with tattoos, heavy metal—boys with no filters and faster hands than sense. But my daddy had always kept them at bay, Grandpa being a Baptist preacher and all. Here? There was no one to stop me.
And I didn’t want to be stopped.
“Order up!” shouted the barista.
Startled, I grabbed the tray full of food and drinks and delivered it to one of the tables by the window.
Then I busied myself checking on tables, taking more orders, and cleaning up a mess left by three kids who’d been running their mother ragged as she’d tried to enjoy her latte.
Still, my thoughts drifted back to him .
That man. The one who wore danger like a second skin—black coat, black shirt, black watch that probably cost more than my car.
Icy-blue eyes that cut into my soul and looked like they’d seen every sin known to man and committed most of them.
Jaw sharp enough to cut glass and ink all the way up his throat and down his fingers.