A pregnant waitress dropped a coffee pot in shock as the dangerous mob boss she fled seven months ago walked into her diner.

From behind the stainless-steel pass-through window connecting the kitchen to the main floor, the heavy chime of a silver service bell rang twice. A thick, grease-stained hand slid a pair of heavy ceramic plates onto the counter shelf.

“Order up, Sophia!” Mel called out from the greasy haze of the kitchen. His voice was a rasping bark, aged by forty years of cheap cigars and fried grease. “Table four’s double cheeseburgers are dying under the heat lamp! Move it along, kid!”

Sophia opened her eyes, drawing in a long, shaky breath of air that smelled of old vegetable oil, bleached rags, and stale coffee. She forced her body back into motion, carrying the heavy tray of dirty dishes over to the bus station sink behind the counter. She set the dishes down with a clatter of porcelain, her worn, scuffed sneakers squeaking against the slick floor.

Without taking a pause, her hands moved on pure muscle memory. She reached for the glass coffee pot sitting on the silver burner near the register. The pot was three-quarters full of dark, scalding brew, the glass warm against her calloused fingers. She adjusted her grip on the plastic handle, turning her body toward the entrance as the small brass chime mounted above the diner’s heavy glass front door rang out sharply.

The door swung open, letting in a sudden gust of wet, late-night city air that smelled of ozone, asphalt, and distant exhaust.

Without looking up to check who had walked through the door—customary for a late-night shift where nameless truck drivers and night-shift nurses drifted in and out—Sophia lifted the pot slightly, her tone falling into the flat, rehearsed cadence of a tired service worker.

“Welcome to Mel’s,” she said, her voice dry and raspy from lack of water. “Coffee to start?”