14. LYLA
Chapter fourteen
M y breath puffed in the cold air as I tugged the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands.
The streets were mostly empty this early in the morning.
An occasional delivery truck passed me by, and a few coffee vendors were out prepping for the morning rush.
The quiet was strange. It would have been almost peaceful if I hadn’t been so wired.
I adjusted the strap of my bag and picked up my pace. My shift at Cipher started in fifteen minutes, and I needed to get a move on. No matter how early I got up, I always managed to run late. It must have been some sort of genetic malfunction.
Since moving to Manhattan, I’d worked nonstop—eagerly taking any temp job that paid, any opportunity to learn.
I’d hustled for every audition, participated in every free workshop, and attended any acting class that fit into my schedule.
Six months of grinding, of surviving. Of going without sleep.
Of getting close but never close enough.
And now, somehow, everything had changed in a matter of days. It was as if the universe had slammed the best and worst of life into a single, breathless collision.
I still couldn’t process what had happened at the club on Halloween.
Carlos had shot that man as if it were nothing.
A man had died right in front of me. I’d watched his skull split open and spray blood all over the place.
A shudder ran through me. Just another night at The Sacrifice, apparently. God, what had I gotten myself into?
I hadn’t told a soul except Nat and Jae. Not even the cops. Because I knew how that would go. Even if I could prove that man had been shot dead by Carlos, I doubted anyone would care. Men like Carlos and Ciro Delgado didn’t answer to the law.
They made legal problems disappear. Made people disappear.
Pulling my scarf tighter around my neck, I kept walking.
I wasn’t stupid. If I wanted to survive in this city, I had to pretend none of it had ever happened.
If I kept my head down, smiled, danced, and acted as though everything was fine, maybe they’d leave me be.
And if not?
Well, I didn’t want to think about that.
But I also couldn’t let them take this from me.
And I wouldn’t screw up the one thing I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl.
Not when I’d finally landed a role in a real Off-Broadway production.
It wasn’t the lead, sure, but being cast as the understudy for Ruby Vance in City Song was the biggest break I’d had.
I was one call away from actually appearing onstage—all it would take was for the lead to twist her ankle or come down with the flu.
And when that happened, I had to be ready.
I couldn’t walk away. Not now. Not when I was finally starting to live the life I’d worked so hard for.
That meant doing what everyone expected of me—at the club, at the coffee shop, at the theater. Nat had called it “survival acting.”
Today, I was determined to play that role perfectly.
My fingers tightened around the cuffs of my sleeves as the coffee shop came into view, and my thoughts shifted.
Would he come to Cipher this morning?
My stomach twisted, just a little.
Not because I was scared, but because I didn’t know what I wanted.
A part of me hoped I’d see him again. The other part was terrified of him.
My Russian stalker—the man with the voice that made my stomach flip.
I exhaled hard and pushed the door open. Time to get to work.
The soft clink of mugs and shifting trays welcomed me as I stepped inside.
“Morning!” I called.
Carmine looked up from behind the counter. His face was gruff, but there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “You’re coasting in at the last minute.”
I shrugged. “It still counts as on time. How’d the surprise health inspection go?”
He frowned slightly. Then his brows shot up. “Fine. Everything was fine. Just one of those things the city puts business owners through from time to time. Cost me a day’s income, but what do they care?”
He grunted and turned toward the oven.
I moved to the back, tossed my coat onto the hook in the office, and pulled my apron over my head. The aroma of coffee, cinnamon, and baked sugar was comforting—something I could hold on to for a few hours before the rest of my life showed up with a knife behind its back.
My mind drifted to him.
The man with the voice that was panty-meltingly delicious, and the eyes that made my heart stop. The man who hadn’t just kissed me but devoured me as if he owned my very soul.
I didn’t even know his name.
And yet, he was in my head.
In my dreams.
Was that insane?
Probably.
But ever since that night in the alley—when he had commanded me and I’d obeyed—something inside me had shifted. I hated him. I craved him. And worst of all, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
I caught myself biting my lip and forced my attention back to flipping the sign on the door to let customers know we were open.
He probably wouldn’t show.
Men like him wanted a woman who could handle the rough, filthy way he probably enjoyed fucking.
And girls like me didn’t get to want what we couldn’t survive.
The scent of dark roast and glazed orange scones filled the air as I slid the fresh pastry trays into the glass case. A batch of turkey-sausage breakfast wraps warmed in the convection oven behind me, and the espresso machine hissed to life as Trina ran its first calibration shot.
She moved as she always did—efficiently, briskly, like she was just a little annoyed. Her ponytail was pulled tight, and her long nails tapped a rhythm on the touchscreen register, preparing it for the morning rush. I grabbed a stack of cups and started stocking the front counter.
“Well,” Trina muttered, not looking up from the register, “I guess our most important customer decided he’s done with us thanks to you.”
I glanced over from where I was lining up the lids. “Who?”
She snorted, shaking her head. “Please. Tall, Russian, glacial, hotter-than-hell with that whole villain vibe. The guy who tips like twenties are quarters.”
My stomach dipped. I looked away.
Trina kept going. “Hasn’t been in since Friday. I’m gonna miss those bills he’d throw on the table every time I waited on him. Shame he got chased off by your sassy mouth and hateful glares.”
I bristled. “I wasn’t being sassy. I was just trying to take his order.”
Trina snorted. “You basically called him emotionally constipated in front of the morning-rush crowd.”
I ignored the flutter in my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said coyly, knowing it would piss her off.
“Sure you don’t.” She grabbed a rag and started wiping down the milk fridge. “I’m just saying…men like him don’t tolerate disrespect. Not from servers with too much attitude and too little common sense.”
“That’s enough, Trina,” Carmine said, his voice edged with warning. He stood with his back to us behind the counter, placing some croissants onto a tiered rack.
She rolled her eyes.
I moved behind the counter and started prepping the to-go cups. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just tried to take his damn order,” I whisper-shouted.
“Humph, didn’t do anything wrong ,” Trina scoffed. “Girl, you challenged him as though you wanted a throwdown in the back alley.”
“Shut your traps,” Carmine threw over his shoulder.
I straightened, tightening a cup sleeve. “I only made a comment after he said really derogatory things to me. He was rude to me first. Not to mention threatening.” I was determined to have the last word.
“He’s a customer,” Trina growled. “And not just any customer. He doesn’t come here for the banter, sweetheart. Especially not the kind where a waitress gets in his face.”
“I wasn’t in his face.”
“You practically climbed across his table.”
“Knock it off!” Carmine roared, turning from the rack with a scowl. “Both of you.”
We froze.
He glared at Trina. “You’ve been riding her since she walked in. Cut it out.” Then at me. “And you—just keep your mouth shut. If that man doesn’t come back, it’s his choice and not your concern. Besides, you don’t want to attract his attention.”
I swallowed hard and joined them behind the back counter. “I don’t even know who he is.”
“And you don’t want to,” Carmine said without looking up.
I hesitated. “But you and Trina do.”
He slid a tray of bagels into the case, adjusted it, and then finally met my eyes.
“Drop it,” he said sharply. “That man? He doesn’t exist on paper. No socials. No records. No past you can dig up that doesn’t come with a body count.”
My blood ran cold.
Trina took a step closer and leaned toward me, her eyes gleaming with mockery. “Ever heard of the word bratva , country girl?”
I blinked. “No.”
She gave a short laugh. “Of course you haven’t.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something you don’t mess with,” Carmine said flatly.
Trina leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “He’s in the Russian mafia and doesn’t give a shit about the law.”
I stared at them both. “You think he’s…involved in that for real?”
Trina smirked. “Sweetheart, there’s no telling how many people he’s killed.”
Carmine gave her a look but didn’t correct her.
My stomach turned.
“He’s a powerful man,” Carmine added, exhaling sharply. “The kind of man you don’t need to get close to. The kind that doesn’t leave loose ends.”
My voice came out small. “You really think he’s dangerous?”
Carmine’s expression didn’t change. “I know he is.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there. The memory of his fingers wrapped around my throat suddenly took on a new meaning, and that should have scared me. But it didn’t.
Carmine finally wiped his hands and said, “Whatever curiosity you’ve got about him, kill it. Fast. This city’s full of things you don’t want to learn the hard way.”
And just like that, he walked away.