Page 4 of Sinful Bargains

"Two coffees, please," I said softly to the waitress as she approached our booth.

"Comin' right up."

Fear and anxiety knotted inside of me, an itch to blend in, but my stiff demeanor was making that impossible to accomplish. The locals had been kind enough, but I could sense their wariness regarding strangers. Particularly newcomers like myself. Maybe it was the air of mystery I carried with me—or the fact I'd walked into town with nothing more than the clothes on my back and a thirteen-year-old boy.

The diner's door opened again with a clatter of metal, followed by the heavy scent of gasoline and sawdust that usually marked a day's labor. A stocky man with broad shoulders walked in, his work boots scraping against the floor. He didn't notice me, but rather nodded to the waitress and asked her for a coffee in his thick New York accent. I saw him here yesterday morning. I couldn't remember his face, only how he walked in at 6:15 a.m., already smelling like he'd been working for hours. Still, everyone in the diner this morning had been here the past two mornings. Except for the man from the ferry terminal sitting at the bar counter, sipping his coffee. I watched him finally shift slightly, his eyes darting briefly over towards the man who had entered. He met my hardened stare before returning to his coffee. I felt the electricity of his gaze like a spark in the still air, and just as quickly, his attention faded, leaving me both intrigued and suspicious. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the anxiety was creeping up again. My chest felt so tight, like it might cave in. I hesitated, gathering my swirling thoughts before standing and walking toward him. My heart drummed against my ribcage, still struggling to heal.

"Are you following me?" My voice was low, but firm. I didn’t want anyone to overhear us. "I recognize you from the ferry terminal. I don't want to make a scene here, but I'd like to know if someone sent you to follow me around."

The man's eyes met mine. He hesitated and blinked with bafflement, caught off guard by my directness. His eyes seemed to soften as he processed my words briefly. His gaze, the way itslowly raked over my features, caused me to shift nervously on my heels. He cleared his throat, leaning back slightly in his chair. "I been here my whole life," he said. His accent was thick with a New York drawl, just like everyone else in this town. His gaze flickered to mine, studying me in a way that made me visibly squirm and want to crawl out of my skin. "Who did this to you?"

I instantly became wide awake. His words sliced through the air like cold water to the face, washing away the makeup I had strategically applied to cover up the bruise that had painted my skin a soft yellow shade. My heavy lashes flew up in surprise. The images of my husband, the gun in my hand, the blood on the freshly cleaned tile, came rushing back—my bold escape, the fear for myself and Antonio.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I muttered, my throat tight with emotion. "I'm just trying to get settled."

He scoffed, shaking his head before reaching for a napkin, scribbling an address on it. Without meeting my eyes, he slid it across the counter to me. "Go to the counter and tell them Joey sent you," he said quietly. I stared at the napkin for a moment, my mind racing. Was he offering to help me? But why? He didn't know me. What could he possibly see in me that would possess him to want to help me? "It's a small neighborhood. A lot of people know each other here," he explained, breaking the silence between us.

I looked up from the napkin, disoriented. "I figured as much."

I dared to look at him directly, but his eyes, dark and assessing, were almost too much to bear. "You'll learn who matters here soon enough," he added. I searched his eyes for clarity on that statement, but all I saw was the beautiful shade of ice blue.

As he got up to leave, he turned again, his voice soft as he whispered, "If you need anything, don't hesitate. Folks here aren't all friendly, but some know how to help. And everyoneknows where to find me. Just say my name, and they'll know exactly who you're talking about."

His words, simple yet loaded, followed him out the door. I caught myself staring long after he had left. There was something about him—unsettling yet compelling. I couldn't quite decide what it was. But something told me our paths had only begun to intersect in ways that would change my life in more ways than one, far beyond anything I could ever imagine.

There was no time for second-guessing; I knew it was a risk—this new life was a risk. But it was one I had no choice but to take.

I hurried out of the diner and down the sidewalk, Antonio's pace matching my own. "Ma, who was that guy, and what did he want?" he asked.

I was too preoccupied to answer his questions. Instead, my eyes were locked ahead as I scanned the small corner store whose address matched the napkins. I opened the door, and the bell above rang, announcing our arrival. Behind the counter stood an older man in his sixties, wearing an apron over a weathered shirt. He glanced up at me with an expression that was impossible to read.

"Joey sent me here..." I said, my voice quivering. I wasn't sure what I was doing or what would come of this, but I was running out of options. And money.

The man studied me, then slightly nodded, still expressionless. "When can you start?"

I blinked, struggling to hide my confusion. "Start what?"

"Well, you came here for a cashier job, didn't you? I don't know why else he would have sent you." The man's voice was steady, like this was an everyday request. A surge of disbelief hit me. Joey—the man I barely knew—had just gotten me a job. I could hardly process what was happening.

"Today," I said quickly, almost too eagerly. "Now. Whenever."

The man let out a low chuckle, his face softening slightly. "How about tomorrow? I open at 7:00 a.m., but I'll need you here by 6:45 a.m."

Relief broke from my lips, the weight in my chest easing just a fraction. It wasn't much, but it was a start. I glanced back at Antonio, quietly watching near the door, and gave him a hopeful smile.

The next morning, I showed up at 6:45 a.m. on the dot. My first task was simple: make the best damn pot of coffee I could make. Mr. Davidson, the store owner, had shown me the correct ratio of coffee grounds to water—his instructions were straightforward and exact. He didn't ask me any questions, and he didn't probe into my past. He simply showed me what needed to be done, and I did it without hesitation. For the first time since I'd arrived on Staten Island, I felt like I might be okay.

Like clockwork, as soon as the clock struck 7:00 a.m. and Mr. Davidson unlocked the front doors to the corner store, the men began trickling into the store, one after another. Each of them inspected me, but I stuck to my list of to-dos. As they filed in, their quiet yet assertive demeanor marked them as something more than just working-class men. These were no ordinary customers. I didn't notice initially; I focused on ensuring the coffee was perfect, the shelves were stocked, and the floors were swept. However, it became clear that these men were paying far too much attention to my presence than I'd appreciated.

Joey was among the men who walked into the corner store for their first cup of coffee that morning. After pouring his cup, he finally walked toward the counter where I stood as he took a sip. As he reached the counter, our eyes met. I felt my composure under attack, and I couldn't hold his gaze for long. Something in his eyes unsettled me, luminous shadows pulling me into his orb.

"Good coffee," he said smoothly, breaking the silence and giving me the slightest hint of a smile.

"Thank you...Thank you for the job," I muttered hastily. “I don't know why you did it, but I appreciate it."

The last thing I wanted when I arrived on Staten Island was to be indebted to a man, but I couldn't deny the generosity in his actions. It felt like I was suddenly less alone in the world, a feeling I hadn't expected after everything I'd been through. My eyes flickered over his shoulder at the men mingling at the coffee bar, staring my way and snickering to one another. Joey’s eyes followed mine as he looked over his shoulder.

He leaned his body against the counter; his eyes clung to mine, analyzing my reactions, the way I squirmed under all the eyes suddenly pointing my way. "They like to look," he said with a barely perceptible nod toward the men eyeing me all morning, "but they know I sent you here. They won't step out of line. They know better."

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