The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

And since I didn’t want the responsibilities that came with being higher up in the organization, I couldn’t be mad about him getting to pick and choose his jobs.

“Aight,” I said again, shrugging. “But if you decide to take him out, I want in on that,” I said. “I haven’t gotten my hands bloody in too long,” I added.

“No?” Emilio asked, jerking his chin toward my hands.

“That was just a little misunderstanding,” I said, getting a chuckle and head shake out of Emilio.

“Over what?” he pressed.

“Cab etiquette,” I told him. “Like not knocking down little old ladies who are trying to get into one so you can steal it.”

“Christ. This isn’t going to come back on us, is it?” Lorenzo asked.

“Nah.”

I waited until the cab was around the block before opening the door and pulling the bastard out.

“There were no cameras pointed that way,” I added.

“Alright. Well, keep your fists to yourself on this job. You don’t want to be drawing any attention to yourself,” Lorenzo warned. “We need this shit under wraps until we make a decision.”

“Got it,” I agreed, nodding as I got up off the chair. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Can’t think of anything,” Emilio said, head shaking.

“I start now?” I asked.

“If you have nothing else going on,” Lorenzo said.

I had to knock the heads together of a set of brothers who were two months behind on their payments.

But that could wait.

I might as well get started.

I figured the faster I got to it, the quicker we could wrap up the job none of us wanted to do.

Then we could all move on.

Or so I thought at the time.

Before my eyes landed on her.

CHAPTER TWO

Brio

Restaurant 1969, the original one, was located in the Hell’s Kitchen area.

It was in the same location as it always had been—real estate isn’t easy to come by in the city, especially at the kind of prices Eren’s old man would have paid back in the seventies.

So they stayed put, but slapped a cool million—at least—into renovations five or so years back, trying to attract a more upscale clientele.

The front had a small bistro area encased with ornate wrought iron fencing and overhung with an overhang above in a deep turquoise color.

The walls inside matched, and they paired it with dark wood tables, chairs, and a bar. Filmy white curtains were placed in all the corners, gathered as not to obstruct the view, but create a more intimate feeling. Carpets were scattered throughout in shades of black, white, and turquoise. And an actual tree was growing in the center of the place.

It was a fancy-ass place.

And judging by the reviews online—and the fact that it was jam-packed at three o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon—it had some good food going for it too.

I wouldn’t know.

I couldn’t say I’d ever really had Turkish food before.

Smelled good, though.

Restaurant 1969 was conveniently located in a busy area, so no one would really notice me walking past, or even hanging out nearby.

I had a look that kind of blended in anyway.

The only people who looked twice were the ones who were either interested in my ink, or saw something in my eyes that made them uncomfortable.

And so I camped out.

Four hours came and went without a single sighting of anyone other than diners and the staff.

I was about to give up for the day to go grab something to eat that didn’t come in a candy wrapper when a town car pulled up.

After a while in the life, you got a feel about town cars.

Because they weren’t the exclusive rides of crime families. Rich businessmen rode in ‘em all the time too.

Something about this one with its blackout windows—the front included—had me straightening up from where I was slouching against the wall, pretending to text on my phone.

I suddenly wished it was the dead of winter, so I could have a hood up that would hide the fact that I was watching.

But spring was in full swing and the cheap polarized shades I bought at the bodega were the best I could do to mask my attention.

The car pulled up right out front. A corner spot right by a stop sign, further cementing my thoughts on it being Eren’s ride.

No one else would park in a tow zone like that.

And the car did park.

And the driver got out, going around, and opening the door for the person in the back.

Then there he was.

Eren Polat.

He was somewhere in his late forties or early fifties with the kind of frame that suggested he indulged a lot in the free fare at his restaurants.

He wore gray slacks and a white button-up, open three buttons, showing off an abundance of chest hair.

A gold chain was tangled in that hair.

The man went heavy on the jewelry as a whole. Gold watch, gold rings, even a gold chain bracelet on his other wrist.