Chapter 8 - Five Hundred a Night
The silence in the diner stretched thin. The hum of the refrigerator compressors in the back seemed to grow louder, vibrating through the floorboards.
Dora stared down at the stack of cash resting beside her napkin dispenser. Five hundred dollars a night. In the span of a week, it would wipe out her grandmother’s outstanding pharmacy bills and leave enough over to fix the rattling transmission in her 2011 Honda Civic. It was an obscene amount of money for simply pouring a cup of coffee and keeping her mouth shut.
Yet, every instinct she possessed screamed that she was stepping onto the edge of a precipice. The man sitting on the red vinyl stool was not a common criminal running from petty cops; he was a kingpin of an underworld syndicate, wrapped in bespoke wool and carrying the scent of dried blood and high-stakes vengeance.
"You're a ghost," Dora said softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the overhead lights. "And ghosts have a habit of dragging everyone around them into the grave."
Leonardo looked up at her, his dark eyes stripped of their usual arrogance. Underneath the hard, impenetrable exterior, there was a profound, suffocating exhaustion—the look of a man carrying the weight of an empire built on blood, now crumbling from within.
"I’m not running from ghosts, sweetheart," Leonardo said, his voice dropping into a quiet, gravelly confession. "I’m running from family."
Dora didn't move. She slowly reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the banded cash, feeling the texture of the paper. She didn't take it yet, but she didn't push it away either.
"If you bring a gun in here again," Dora warned, her voice hardening into a blade of pure steel, "I won't just threaten you with the coffee pot. I’ll call the state troopers and let them sort out what’s left of you."
Leonardo gave a slow, solemn nod of agreement. "Fair enough."
May you like
He reached out with his uninjured hand, pushed the stack of cash a fraction of an inch closer to her apron, and gestured toward the coffee pot. "Black. No sugar."
Dora let out a long, defeated sigh, turned around, and poured the coffee.
