Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Anthony

The diner was a hole in the wall.

But, in my experience, the best food always came out of places with linoleum so ancient that half the color was worn away, hideous red vinyl booths, and artwork on the wall that was bleached from the years of the sun beating on it.

My little carjacker walked in ahead of me, hood still up, nodding her chin at the man standing in the kitchen window.

"Seat yourself," he called, prompting her to grab two menus and start walking down the short aisle of tables, choosing the one in the corner. That, I noted, allowed her to see both the front and the side doors, where our waitress was standing smoking.

It wasn't until I slid into the booth that she did the same, then reached up to push the hoodie off her head.

And, fuck.

She was gorgeous.

She had an unexpectedly delicate face, almost pixie-like, with small bones, a slightly upturned nose, and warm brown eyes that were fucking boring into me.

"You look familiar," she said, gaze moving over my features.

"Wish I could say the same," I said, glancing over the menu because I was pretty sure I'd be a creep just staring at her if I didn't distract myself.

Even focused elsewhere, I caught the movement as she reached back, removing a claw clip from her hair, and shaking the long, silky dark strands loose to frame her face in wavy layers.

And, fuck me, her hair smelled like fucking strawberries. I could smell it clear across the table.

"Can I get you something to drink?" our raspy-voiced waitress asked as she walked toward the table, bringing a cloud of cigarette scent with her that choked out the strawberry.

"Coffee, please," she said.

"Milk or cream?"

"Neither," she said and I tried not to feel awkward about getting the cream with mine.

"Everything is good," she told me as I flipped through the pages of the menu. Six of them in total. Everything from breakfast to questionable seafood options.

I'd had nothing to do all day but snack on the shit I packed in the car, so when the waitress came back, I just ordered a side of fries.

"And for you?" she asked, looking at the woman as I added a few creamers to my coffee, frustrated when it was still so dark afterward.

"The fried chicken with half fries, half onion rings, a chocolate milkshake, and a small order of the waffles," she said, making my brows shoot up.

The hoodie was roomy, but I was reasonably sure she was on the thin side underneath. Where the fuck would she be putting all that food?

"You got it," the waitress said, taking out menus, then walking away.

Across from me, the woman sipped her coffee, prompting me to do the same, wincing at how bitter it was.

"Men," she said, rolling her eyes as she passed the sugar toward me. "Just add the damn sugar," she told me. "And while you're at it, why don't you tell me who you are."

"Anthony," I told her, grabbing a small pile of sugar packets, and ripping their tops off before pouring the granules into the coffee.

"Anthony who?" she asked, pinning me with those stunning eyes. All hooded and sleepy-looking. The kind of eyes I imagined people meant when they called them ‘bedroom eyes.'

I cleared my throat as my mind went right into the bedroom with layers of clothes getting peeled off.

"Costa," I told her.

It was a name that would likely mean nothing to the average person.

But I saw the recognition in a slight widening of her eyes, in the way her back stiffened.

"Costa," she repeated, tapping her fingers against her coffee mug, drawing my attention down to her short, unpainted nails, and the way three of her knuckles had recently been busted open.

Interesting.

"Yep," I agreed, nodding. "You have a name?"

"Not one you'd recognize," she said.

"I still want to hear it."

"Saylor," she admitted. "Granger."

She was right. That name meant nothing to me. And I prided myself on trying to be on top of any major players in the criminal world.

"Okay, Saylor. Wanna tell me what you were doing casing out the house belonging to a Czech criminal organization?"

"Sure. If you tell me why you were doing the same."

"It was my job to keep an eye on them, see what they're up to."

"Your job. Were your orders given by Lorenzo Costa, Capo dei Capi of the Five Families?" she asked, studying my face as she said it.

"Yep," I agreed. "Who are you working for?"

"Myself," she said.

"Yourself? What the fuck could you have to do with a syndicate like that?"

"Oh, because little ol' me couldn't possibly have her own agenda?" she asked.

"Not what I meant," I said, shaking my head. "Most people don't work alone."

"I do."

"Okay," I agreed. "And what is your line of work?"

To that, she sucked in a deep breath, gaze moving out the picture window for a moment, watching a couple cross the street, the woman dancing and smiling, the man's gaze moving over her as she shimmied at him, reaching for his hand, trying to get him to dance with her.

"I'm—" she started, but was cut off by the clanking of a plate down in front of her. "Fried chicken, fries, onion rings, waffles, and a milkshake," the waitress said, pulling plates off her arms, leaving red impressions in their wake from the heat. "And fries," she said, dropping a plate in front of me.

I didn't even notice the plate clipped the side of my coffee cup until Saylor's arm was shooting across the table, grabbing it before it spilled all over my lap.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she asked, squinting at me.

"Thanks," I said, pushing the coffee further away. "Could do without being burned twice in one day with hot coffee," I admitted.

"What happened to your face?" she asked as she reached for one of her fries, dunking it down into her milkshake before putting it in her mouth.

"What happened to your knuckles?" I shot back.

"A punching bag."

"A car door," I told her.

"Ow," she said, wincing. "What, were you lying on the ground or something?"

"Tying my shoe," I admitted with a headshake as I reached for the ketchup.

"Arms," she said as she shoved an onion ring into her mouth.

"What's wrong with your arms?" I asked, gaze moving to them.

"No," she said with a little snort. "No, arms. It's what I'm in. As a business."

"Arms. As in dealing?" I asked, looking over her again.

I'd known a few arms dealers in my day. They were usually beefy guys with bodyguards always nearby.

"Should I also question why someone who is so shitty at being aware of his surroundings is in the mob?" she asked, bristling at the idea that I was judging her.

"Just wasn't expecting that," I said, shrugging. "There's a pretty massive arms crew right over the border in Jersey."

"Yeah, the bikers," she agreed, nodding. "I get a lot of my stuff from them. They don't like coming into the city," she added.

"So, are the Czechs competition for you?"

"The Czechs are thieves who broke into my place and stole my entire fucking inventory," she said, voice getting tight.

"That explains it," I said, mumbling to myself, but her head whipped up from where she was cutting off a corner of her waffle, then setting a piece of chicken on it.

"Explains what?"

"Earlier today, a car pulled up, and they unloaded a shitton of weapons into the row house."

"Did they?" Saylor asked, jaw getting tight, making a little muscle pop in her cheek.

"Guess those were yours," I said.

"Ya think?" she asked, shoving some of her food in her mouth, thinking while she chewed. Likely plotting revenge, if the fiery look in her eye was anything to go by.

"How'd they get into your place?"

"The garage door," she admitted, shaking her head at herself. "It had that fucking security feature that won't let it close if something is in the way so animals and little kids don't get crushed, y'know? Well, they shoved something in the way as I walked away. Didn't see them. Then when the door opened up again, they just waltzed right in."

"Fuck, that sucks."

"There was no other way in. Which I assume they figured out by staking me out like we are staking them out."

"You don't have a guard on your inventory?"

"Well, I do now," she said. At my expectant look, she shrugged as she stabbed another fry into her milkshake. "I stole a guard dog from the drug dealers next door. She's already used to barking at people like she's going to bite your face off. So I figured she was worth it."

"You stole a dog from drug dealers," I repeated, lips twitching, enjoying the idea more than I probably should have.

"They kept her outside year-round. Liberated her is more like it. At least she has air conditioning and heat now. And something soft to sleep on. Do you have a dog?"

"No, why?"

"Apparently, I'm supposed to name her. I've never named anything before."

"Me either," I said, nodding. "I work too much for pets."

"I do too. But she's going to live at my work, so, really, the only time she'll be alone is when I'm not working. Which isn't often."

"If you can get your inventory back."

"When I get my inventory back," she corrected.

"There's six of them. And now they have a lot of weaponry. How do you plan to take all of them on?" I asked.

She sat with that a second, a fry going soggy in her milkshake before she remembered to plop it in her mouth. "I don't know yet, but I plan to figure it out."

"Do you think they are planning to take over your work in the area?" I asked.

"I have no idea. It's that or they are planning to make big moves against someone else," she said, piercing me with those big brown eyes. "Is that what your boss is worried about?"

"More or less. I'm supposed to figure out what their plans are and report back."

"So, what I'm hearing is I should hope that they want to off all of you guys. Then I can just waltz in there, step over some bodies, and collect my goods."

"It's sweet how concerned you are for my welfare," I teased, getting a small lip twitch out of her. That felt like a feat, because I got the feeling that Saylor was not the kind of woman who smiled easily or often.

"I think this is one of those ‘better you than me' sort of situations," she said, dunking another fry.

"Is that good?" I asked, eyeing my ketchup as I picked at my fries.

"Try it," she said, waving at the milkshake as she set her focus on her chicken instead.

"I've been eating fries wrong my whole life," I declared as the tastes combined to something unexpected and delicious.

"That's the only way I like chocolate," she told me. "But you can't knock disco fries. Or pizza fries either. Really, you just can't go wrong with a fried potato, period."

"The only way you like chocolate?" I asked, dubious. "Cake? Chocolate bars? Cookies?"

"White cake, gummy candies, and oatmeal cookies," she said.

"Huh," I said, thinking of my own addiction to chocolate.

"What?" she asked.

"Chocolate is the only way to keep my sister Mira from ripping off my face sometimes," I admitted.

"Same thing works for me with gummy fish or Twizzlers," she admitted.

"Do you have any sisters?" I asked, suddenly enjoying this conversation, and wanting to keep it going. Even if we weren't talking about work anymore.

"No," she said, but the clipped way she said it and the flash of pain that crossed her eyes said that question struck some sort of nerve. And nothing about her body language invited me to ask more.

"So, what's your next move?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"With the Czech guys? You obviously can't stake them out again now."

"Thanks to you," I said.

"I would apologize, but I'm not sorry for saving my own ass," she said, pushing away her empty plate of chicken, and digging back into the waffles. There were no signs of her slowing down, either.

"I'm not sure what the next move is yet. Haven't had time to think on it too. What about you?"

"If the whole ‘wait for you guys to kill them off' thing doesn't go through?" she asked.

"Yeah," I agreed.

"I'm not sure yet either. I could have probably taken on three of them. But you said six. And I don't feel confident about that. Gotta think on it. Put out some more feelers about them."

"How about we compare notes?" I asked before I could think better of it.

"What do you mean, compare notes?"

"We're both working against the same people. Have a somewhat common goal. We can share information. Help each other out."

"Want to look good to your boss, huh?" she asked, head tipped to the side, watching me.

"Yeah," I admitted, shrugging. The truth was the truth.

She sat back, taking a deep breath as her hand hovered over her final onion ring.

"I'll agree to one more meet-up," she said. "Then we can decide where to go from there."

A loner by nature and in business, I had to understand her reluctance to get too tied up with someone else. Even if my crew were, by nature, the kind who worked together.

"Okay," I agreed. "When? Where?"

"Figure we can take tomorrow off to chase down some leads. Then meet the next day."

"I'm good with that," I agreed. "Where?"

Wiping her fingers on her napkin after shoving the whole last onion ring in her mouth, she gave me gimmie fingers. "Give me your phone," she demanded.

I handed it over after I unlocked it, watching as she typed in her number, then called herself from my phone to plug mine in as well.

"I will text you an address," she told me, then asked the waitress for the bill.

"And if I'm busy?"

"You get un busy," she said, stealing the last few fries off of my plate, then starting to slide out of the booth.

Alright then.

Things were going to be on her terms.

Somehow, I was more than a little okay with that.

Except, of course, her trying to pay the bill.

I reached over her shoulder, plucking it out of her hand, and passing it to the server at the register.

"What do you think—" she started, but I ignored her objections as I slid money to the waitress. "Keep the change," I told her, watching her brighten at having a solid thirty-dollar tip on a dead shift.

"Is this a problem too?" she asked, leaning against the door, holding it open for me.

"Nope," I said, grabbing it over her head, then waving for her to keep moving. "No problem at all."

"So the whole ‘mobsters are gentlemen' thing is not all bullshit, huh?" she asked.

"Depends on the guy, I guess," I said, placing a hand behind her back, but not quite touching her.

"What are you doing?"

"Guiding you back to the truck," I explained.

"Why?" she asked, suspicious.

"To give you a ride home."

"I can walk."

"I'm sure you can. But I'm still going to drive you."

"I have to go walk my dog first."

"I got time," I said, walking her toward the truck. "No ulterior motive here," I said as she eyed me when I opened the passenger door for her. "We have a common goal here. It's in my best interest to make sure some pissed off Czech guy doesn't gun you down on your way home."

"Fine," she agreed, but I could have sworn there was a little smile on her lips as she climbed up into the truck.

Two small smiles in under an hour.

Imagine what I could do with a full day with her.