Chapter 2 - A Drop of Spilled Coffee
He was tall and dressed in a dark wool overcoat that probably cost more than Sadi made in three years. His dark hair was sharply trimmed. His face looked carved from something hard and unforgiving.
But his eyes were what caught people: pale, flat blue, and assessing. They took inventory of the entire room in less than a second.
Leo.
Sadi did not know his last name. Nobody at Frankie’s did. They knew only that every Tuesday and Friday, at exactly 7:15 a.m., he came in, sat in the corner booth facing the door, and ordered black coffee with two eggs over easy. When he entered, Frankie stopped yelling. The fry cook stopped scraping the grill. Leo did not carry a gun that Sadi could see, nor did he arrive flanked by thugs, but the air of violence around him was cold, institutional, and managed.
Sadi picked up a fresh pot of coffee. Keeping her left hand buried in her apron pocket, she approached the corner booth.
“Morning,” Sadi said evenly.
“Morning, Sadi.” His voice was a low baritone, rough around the edges like tires on gravel.
She lifted the coffee pot with her right hand. The angle was awkward without her left hand to steady it, and her right wrist trembled slightly from overcompensating. A single drop of dark coffee splashed onto the laminate tabletop.
Sadi froze. “Sorry.”
She braced herself to be yelled at. Rey would have thrown the mug at her head for spilling.
Leo did not move. He did not look at the spilled coffee. He looked at her right hand, noticing the tremor. His gaze traveled down to her left hand, buried deep inside the apron pocket, and settled on the thick strap of canvas digging into the left side of her neck.
“It’s fine,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “Leave it.”
Sadi nodded once and walked away, feeling his gaze burning into her spine all the way back to the kitchen.
Leo did not believe in coincidences. In his line of work, managing a shipping logistics empire in the shadows of the city's ports, overlooking small details was the first step toward an early grave. He watched Sadi wipe the counter across the room.
Stiff gait. Guarded left quadrant. Pale complexion indicative of pain or sleep deprivation. Left arm isolated and supported.
When a busboy carrying a crate of tomatoes brushed against her left side, Leo saw her jaw lock until the muscles jumped beneath her skin. Every trace of color left her face, and her breathing stopped for three full seconds.
Clavicle or ribs, Leo thought clinically. Most likely the clavicle, given the way the apron strap was sitting. She was working a twelve-hour shift in a greasy diner while hiding a major fracture beneath industrial fabric.
Ten minutes later, Sadi returned with his eggs.
“You’re favoring your left side,” Leo said. It was not a question.
Sadi stiffened in instant panic. “I slept funny. Pinched a nerve in my neck. It’s fine.”
Leo held her gaze in absolute silence, letting the hollow lie hang in the air. Sadi quickly retreated.
May you like
Finishing his meal, Leo left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, walked out to his black sedan, and dialed his associate.
“Donnie,” Leo ordered. “Pull some background on a waitress at Frankie’s Diner. First name Sadi. Find out where she lives, and find out who she lives with. I want to know by noon.”
