Chapter 2 - The Black Mercedes Returned
Clare's first instinct was to hide in the freezer.
Her second was to laugh at herself for having that instinct.
Her third was to seriously reconsider the freezer.
The scarred man crossed the sidewalk while Clare stood frozen behind table four, dishcloth clenched between her fingers.
Tommy saw him.
A glass slipped from Tommy's hand.
It hit the rubber mat behind the counter without breaking.
“Why is he back?”
Clare looked at him.
“Maybe he likes the pie.”
“He did not like the pie.”
“How do you know?”
“You told everyone.”
That was true.
Marcus leaned through the kitchen window.
“Is that one of Caruso's guys?”
“Yes.”
Marcus immediately disappeared.
“Coward,” Clare called.
His voice floated from behind the grill.
“Alive coward.”
The bell above the diner door chimed.
The scarred guard entered.
Customers noticed him.
Most looked away.
Clare forced herself to stand still.
He walked directly toward her.
Up close, he seemed slightly less terrifying than the other night.
Only slightly.
“Miss Murphy.”
“Scar Guy.”
His eyebrow lifted.
Clare sighed.
“Sorry. Long day.”
“Nico.”
“That your name?”
“Yes.”
“Nico what?”
“Just Nico is fine.”
He held out the envelope.
Cream-colored.
Thick.
CLARE MURPHY had been written in dark ink.
“What is this?”
“Mr. Caruso asked me to deliver it.”
Clare did not take it.
“Why?”
Nico looked at the envelope.
Then at her.
“Generally, envelopes contain information.”
“Very helpful.”
“So I've been told.”
“You're funnier than you look.”
“So are you.”
Clare finally accepted it.
Nothing exploded.
Good start.
“Do I need to sign something?”
“No.”
“Is he waiting outside?”
“No.”
“Is there somebody watching me?”
Nico paused.
That pause bothered her.
“Nico.”
“Mr. Caruso has instructed us to make certain you're safe.”
Clare stared.
“From what?”
“New York.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer I'm authorized to give.”
“You people actually talk like this?”
“What people?”
Clare narrowed her eyes.
Nico almost smiled.
Then he turned.
“Nico.”
He stopped.
“Why does Dante care whether I'm safe?”
Nico glanced over his shoulder.
For the first time, his expression contained something other than professional detachment.
Amusement.
“You should probably ask him.”
Then he left.
Clare stared at the envelope.
Tommy appeared beside her.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you want me to.”
“Clare.”
She turned it over.
No seal beyond the flap.
She slid one finger beneath the edge.
Inside was a folded note.
And a check.
Clare unfolded the check first.
Her heart stopped.
Five thousand dollars.
Payable to Clare Murphy.
No memo.
No explanation.
“What the hell?”
Tommy leaned closer.
His eyes widened.
“Take it.”
Clare snapped the check away from him.
“I am not taking five thousand dollars from a criminal.”
“Alleged criminal.”
“You told me he makes people disappear.”
“That was before he gave you five thousand dollars.”
Clare opened the note.
The handwriting was neat.
Almost architectural.
Murphy,
Buy better shoes.
And sleep.
D.C.
Clare looked down at her sneakers.
The left sole had separated so badly she could fit a finger beneath it.
Something uncomfortable tightened inside her chest.
Not romance.
Not gratitude.
Certainly not.
Annoyance.
Yes.
Definitely annoyance.
“He sent me five thousand dollars for shoes?”
Tommy whistled.
“You have expensive feet.”
“This is insane.”
“Cash it.”
“No.”
“Clare.”
“No.”
She marched behind the counter.
Pulled a blank envelope from beneath the register.
Put the check inside.
Then stopped.
“How do I send this back?”
Tommy stared.
“You don't.”
“I am not keeping it.”
“He will think that's insulting.”
“He already knows I insult him.”
“Maybe don't make it a hobby.”
Clare found a pen.
On the back of Dante's note she wrote:
Caruso,
Shoes cost $40, not $5,000.
Also, telling strangers when to sleep is creepy.
C.M.
She hesitated.
Added:
Coffee still terrible. Pie still worse.
Tommy watched in horror.
“You cannot send that.”
“Watch me.”
The problem was that she had no address.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—the black Mercedes had not left.
It sat across the street.
Nico was still inside.
Clare walked into the rain.
She knocked on the passenger window.
It lowered.
Nico regarded her.
“Yes?”
She handed him the envelope.
“Return to sender.”
He looked down.
“You opened it.”
“Obviously.”
“And?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Yes.”
“For sneakers.”
“That appears to have been the intention.”
“Tell him no.”
Nico stared.
“Tell Dante Caruso no?”
“Yes.”
“I would prefer to remain employed.”
“Then say I told him no.”
“That may be worse.”
“Nico.”
He sighed and accepted the envelope.
“You really don't understand who he is.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Perhaps there's a reason.”
Clare folded her arms.
“Maybe he doesn't understand who I am.”
For a moment Nico said nothing.
Then a smile slowly appeared.
“I suspect that's exactly why he's interested.”
The window rose.
The Mercedes drove away.
Clare stood in the rain.
Interested.
She did not like that word.
It made something flutter low in her stomach.
Three hours later, the diner's telephone rang.
Tommy answered.
His eyes moved toward Clare.
He held out the receiver.
“For you.”
“Who is it?”
Tommy swallowed.
“Guess.”
Clare took the phone.
“Hello?”
“Forty dollars?”
Dante's voice.
She looked around as though he might somehow be watching.
“You got my note.”
“I did.”
“Where do you buy shoes for forty dollars?”
“Normal stores.”
“They are falling apart.”
“They were on sale.”
There was a brief silence.
Then Dante said, “You returned my money.”
“Yes.”
“No one returns my money.”
“Congratulations. New experience.”
Another pause.
She could almost hear his smile.
“You called me creepy.”
“You told a woman you met once when to sleep.”
“A woman who had been awake almost twenty hours.”
“You counted?”
“I pay attention.”
That sent an unexpected shiver through her.
Clare lowered her voice.
“What do you want, Dante?”
It was the first time she had called him by his first name.
Silence stretched.
When he spoke again, his voice sounded different.
Less amused.
“I do not know yet.”
The honesty surprised her.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“That's reassuring.”
“You annoy me.”
“Good.”
“You interest me.”
Not good.
Her pulse increased.
“That's your problem.”
“Yes.”
The word was almost a murmur.
“It appears to be.”
Clare should have hung up.
Instead she remained with the phone against her ear.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Water ran down the glass in silver trails.
“Why did you really send the money?”
Dante exhaled quietly.
“Because I saw you were hurting.”
Clare's throat tightened.
People noticed when she made mistakes.
They noticed when she was late.
When she forgot ketchup.
When she snapped at a customer.
Nobody noticed her shoes.
Nobody noticed the way she shifted her weight because her feet hurt.
Nobody except a man she was supposed to fear.
“That doesn't mean you get to fix me.”
“I did not say you were broken.”
“Then don't act like I need rescuing.”
Another long silence.
“Understood.”
She hadn't expected that.
Most powerful men Clare had met treated boundaries as inconveniences.
Dante accepted hers in one word.
It confused her more than anger would have.
“So that's it?”
“For tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“I will see you again, Murphy.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It was not intended that way.”
“It needs work.”
A quiet laugh traveled through the receiver.
Then he disconnected.
Clare slowly lowered the phone.
Tommy stood three feet away pretending very badly not to listen.
“Well?”
“He's annoying.”
“That's what you got from that?”
“What am I supposed to get?”
“That Dante Caruso personally called the diner because you returned five thousand dollars.”
“People call here every day.”
“Not Dante Caruso.”
Clare replaced the receiver.
She tried to return to work.
She lasted nine minutes before glancing toward the window.
No Mercedes.
No guards.
No Dante.
For reasons she refused to examine, disappointment touched her.
She hated herself for it.
At closing time, Clare stepped outside.
A cardboard box sat beside the diner door.
No note.
She opened it.
Inside was a pair of plain white sneakers.
Nothing designer.
Nothing extravagant.
The exact inexpensive brand she wore.
Only new.
The price sticker remained attached.
$39.99.
Clare stared at them.
Then she laughed despite herself.
Across the street, inside a dark sedan she had not noticed, a man lowered his phone.
Dante Caruso had apparently learned the first rule of Clare Murphy.
She could not be bought.
But somewhere in Manhattan, he was already learning something much more dangerous.
He didn't want to buy her.
He wanted her to choose him.
May you like
And for a man accustomed to controlling everything around him, that made Clare Murphy the most unpredictable thing in his life.
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