Chapter 2 - Shadows Across the LinoleumThe silence stretched between us, thick and brittle as winter ice. The neon Open sign in the front window buzzed with a low, electrical hum, casting a sickly pink hue across the scarred tabletops where the college kids had abandoned their half-eaten fries.
"A stray dog?" I tilted my head, keeping my hands resting casually on the edge of the service counter. Inside, my stomach was tied in knots, but three years of dealing with aggressive drunks and unhinged junkies had taught me how to wear an armor of absolute boredom. "If you lost a pet, try the animal shelter on Tenth. This is a diner, not a kennel."
The younger man with the scar—the one leaning against the glass pastry case—let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the empty booths.
"You've got a lot of nerve talking to Victor Vance's old crew like that," the scarred man murmured, his hand drifting dangerously close to his pocket. "Or maybe you just don't know who's bleeding out on your floor."
My heart skipped a beat, but I forced my expression to remain blank. Victor Vance? They thought I had a family connection? Or were they testing me?
"My name is Elena," I said coldly, stepping around the counter so there was no physical barrier between us. "My father was a dockworker who died of lung cancer when I was twelve. I don't know any Victors, and I certainly don't care about whatever gang war is keeping you gentlemen out in the rain at three in the morning. Now, are you going to order something, or are you going to get out of my lobby so I can lock up?"
The tall man—Victor's apparent second-in-command, whose name I would later learn was Marco—studied me. His gaze drifted from my face down to my sneakers, then back up to my eyes. He was looking for micro-expressions, for the twitch of a muscle or the rapid flutter of a pulse.
"You're awfully calm for a girl standing in an empty diner while blood is dripping from your apron," Marco said quietly. He took another step forward, closing the distance until I could smell the expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of rain and gunsmoke.
"What blood?" I asked, raising an eyebrow and holding up my apron—the clean one I had just put on, having left the bloody one inside the storage room. "If you mean the ketchup bottle that spilled when the trucker dropped his plate five minutes before you walked in, feel free to inspect the floor. Otherwise, you're trespassing."
Marco’s eyes flicked toward the two truckers sitting silently in the corner booth. The truckers didn't look up; they just kept stirring their cold coffee, acting like deaf-mutes. They knew better than to interfere in New York's underworld politics, even at a greasy spoon diner.
Marco’s gaze returned to me. For a second, a dangerous smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"You've got spirit, kid," Marco said, his voice dropping an octave. "Most people piss themselves when we walk into a room. But let me give you a piece of advice: Don't hide things that don't belong to you. Dante Moretti is a cancer on this city. Anyone foolish enough to shelter him shares his grave."
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"I don't know any Dante," I lied smoothly, staring straight back into his cold, black eyes. "And if some guy named Dante came running through here, he's your problem, not mine. Now get out."
Marco stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the hallway leading to the restrooms and the storage room.
