Page 10 of Mafia and Gold Digger

I follow him into the coffee shop and gaze around myself. The place looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1950s and oozes a retro charm. A sprinkling of customers are ensconced in the cozy booths with red leather seats, and a big glass counter shows off an assortment of tempting cakes and ice creams, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in a while. The coffee machine is gleaming in the background as it hisses away, filling the air with a heavenly aroma, and there’s even an old-fashioned soda fountain.

“Hey, Melissa.” He greets the woman behind the counter.

“Happy birthday, handsome,” she practically purrs at him, pulling out from under the cash register what looks to be an envelope containing a birthday card.

“You shouldn’t have. You spoil me, Melissa.”

“As if I’d forget,” she simpers.

As we stand in front of the counter, another woman, wearing the same café uniform, saunters past. She bats her eyelashes at him. “Hey, birthday boy!” she calls in a husky voice.

I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. With his god-like looks, he’s obviously the precinct’s pin-up boy. All the women in here are drooling over him and not even bothering to hide it. Jeez, is every woman in the café a part of this cop’s birthday appreciation society?

“Coffee and cannoli for both of us,” he says to Melissa before sweeping his dark gaze across to me. “This place has the best cannoli in the city. You ever been here before?”

I shake my head, fiddling with my bracelet.

“And their ice cream is the best I’ve ever tasted. They make everything from scratch, using their family recipes.”

“I’ll bring them over,” Melissa says with a coquettish smile at him.

He leads me over to a table, and he indicates with a jerk of his head for me to sit. I’m obviously not important enough to waste his words on.

Everything about my interaction with this man is making a strange sensation prickle over me. I start to wonder if he is actually a cop. But I shake my head. He chased after me, threw me in the back of his car, and locked the doors. He’s definitely a cop. Why else would he have come after me?

Once we’re both seated, I press my lips together so that I don’t say anything. I know that silence is a cop tactic to get someone talking. People’s natural inclination is to talk to fill the uncomfortable void, but that’s not going to be me today. Nuh-uh.

He leans back in his chair. “How old are you, Emerald?” he demands. Jesus, everything about him is so bossy.

I sniff. “It’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” But his stare on me makes me uncomfortable, so I can’t help but answer. “I’m, um, eighteen.”

“Ah.”

I frown at his response. “Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?” I have no idea why his tone sounds offensive, almost as if my age explains something in his head.

“Just an observation,” he murmurs.

“Of?”

“Nothing of importance.”

There’s more silence as he stares at me. “How old are you?” I shoot back.

“Twenty-nine. And I’m old enough to know that you’re being used, Emerald.”

My spine stiffens at his tone. “What’syourname?” I’m determined to deflect the conversation. And me not knowing his name when he knows mine makes me feel at a distinct disadvantage.

“You can call me Saint.”

I can’t help the unladylike snort which escapes me. “I don’t think your mama christened you Saint. What’s your real name?”

He taps a finger on the tabletop. “You’re supposed to be a smart girl. Work it out.”

I huff to myself. Everything about this man is infuriating. And scary. I just want out of here. But I’ve got no idea when he’s going to let me go.

Melissa interrupts our conversation, bringing over two small plates with cannoli and two coffees.

She also sets a dessert glass down in front of Saint. And in it is a triple scoop of chocolate ice cream with five lit candles set into the scoops. “Happy birthday!” she trills.

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