Chapter 2 - The Price of Interference
Ten minutes after the sleek black Maybach pulled away from the curb, Gus Papadakis took the apron off his broad belly and threw it violently against the stainless steel prep counter.
“Pack your things, Ariel,” Gus said, his voice shaking with a terrifying mixture of pity and terror. “Right now. Don't finish the shift. Just take your tips from the register and walk out the back door.”
Ariel stood behind the counter, clutching a damp dish towel until her knuckles ached. “Gus, please. You heard what happened. She was bruising that little girl. She was going to hurt her more.”
“I don't care if she was going to feed her to the coyotes!” Gus shouted, slamming a flat palm onto the counter. The condiment shakers rattled. “Do you know who that was? That was Daphne Castellane! Her father owns the port authority contracts in San Diego and half the real estate between here and Scottsdale! And Colona... sweet Jesus, Ariel. Severino Colona doesn't file lawsuits. He buries people under highway foundations!”
“He didn't hurt me,” Ariel said, though her stomach felt hollow. “He took his daughter. He saw the bruises.”
“He told you not to leave the city!” Gus retorted, his eyes bulging. “That isn't an invitation to tea, girl! That’s an order from a warlord! I have a wife. I have two grandchildren in Glendale. I cannot have his men coming in here with baseball bats and gasoline because my five-foot-four waitress decided to play superhero!”
He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills, and shoved them against her chest.
“Take this. It’s two weeks’ pay. Just go, Ariel. Before Daphne’s brothers show up, or Colona’s wolves come back to clean up loose ends.”
Ariel looked at the money, then down at Gus’s trembling hands. The anger that flared in her chest was quickly snuffed out by a crushing wave of despair. She couldn't blame Gus. Gus was an old man trying to survive in a city run by predators.
“I’m sorry, Gus,” she whispered.
She retreated to the small employee breakroom in the back. The room smelled of stale coffee, bleach, and old cardboard. Her locker was small, dented, and stuck with a magnetic photo of her grandmother—Nana Grace—smiling weakly from a hospice bed with a crochet blanket over her knees.
Nana Grace had died four months ago, leaving behind a mountain of debt: $42,000 to the hospice facility, $8,000 in past-due pharmacy bills, and a collection agency that called Ariel’s cheap flip-phone four times a day. Ariel had taken double shifts, eaten half-stale diner biscuits for dinner, and walked three miles to work to save bus fare.
Now, she had $612 to her name and no job.
Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her mint-green uniform and pulled on her faded jeans and a plain black V-neck t-shirt. She stuffed her sneakers into her canvas tote bag, slipped into her flat sandals, and checked her reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.
She wasn't a delicate society girl like Daphne Castellane. Ariel was built with wide hips, full breasts that strained against basic cotton, and thick thighs that made finding properly fitting jeans an ongoing ordeal. Her hair was a wild, wavy tumble of dark chestnut that refused to stay in any hairpin. She had high, round cheekbones and hazel eyes that always betrayed exactly what she was feeling.
Right now, they showed pure, unfiltered terror.
She took a deep breath, slung her bag over her shoulder, and pushed open the diner’s back door into the alleyway.
The alley was narrow, bordered by towering brick walls and overflowing dumpsters that baked in the 104-degree afternoon heat. Ariel stepped out, the iron door slamming shut behind her with a heavy, final thud.
She took two steps before she froze.
Idling at the end of the alley was a matte-black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows so dark they looked like liquid obsidian. Standing beside the open rear passenger door was a man built like a concrete pillar. He wore a crisp dark suit, an earpiece, and had a jagged scar running from his left temple down into his neatly trimmed beard.
As soon as Ariel appeared, the man straightened and stepped directly into her path.
“Miss Sutton?” he asked. His tone was perfectly polite, perfectly devoid of emotion.
Ariel instinctively stepped back, looking over her shoulder. The metal door behind her was locked from the outside. She gripped the strap of her canvas bag like a weapon.
“Who are you?” she demanded, keeping her voice as loud as she could manage. “Get out of my way.”
“My name is Santino,” the man replied. He did not move an inch. “Mr. Colona requested your presence.”
“I’m not getting into a strange car with you.”
“You are not in danger, Miss Sutton. If Mr. Colona intended to harm you, you would not have made it to the alley.” Santino reached into his suit jacket.
Ariel flinched, preparing to run, but Santino merely extracted a heavy, matte-black card embossed with gold lettering and extended it to her.
“Mr. Colona’s private estate in Paradise Valley. He has instructed me to bring you there immediately. Miss Mirela is asking for you.”
Ariel stared at the card. The name *Mirela* hit her like a physical blow. She remembered the little girl’s haunted, wide eyes, the silent terror, and the miraculous, ragged whisper that had shocked the entire room.
*She... stopped... her.*
“Why would he want me?” Ariel asked, her voice cracking slightly. “I’m a waitress. I don't know anything about his world.”
“Because,” Santino said, his stone-cold eyes softening just a fraction, “the little girl hasn't spoken a single word since her mother’s funeral. Today, she spoke your name. Mr. Colona does not leave debts unpaid, Miss Sutton. And right now, he considers himself deeply in your debt.”
Santino held the door open wider. The interior of the SUV was cool, leather-scented, and cavernous.
“Please, Miss Sutton,” Santino added. “Before Miss Castellane’s family decides to handle this situation through their own channels. This car is armored. The street outside is not.”
Ariel looked down the alley toward the bright, unforgiving street. She had nowhere to run, no money to fight, and no one to protect her.
May you like
She stepped into the car.
***
