Chapter 2: Pause
“Deadly.” Craig met his friend’s gaze. “Make the call.”
Marco nodded, holding up his phone, not making the call yet. He swirled his beer bottle, the glass sweating onto his jeans. “I’m curious. What’s your line for Mya? ‘Hey, your boyfriend owes me lots of money, so he’s going to give me you instead. Wanna get coffee?’” He huffed, a dry, humorless sound. “She’s going to hate you. Why don’t you, I don’t know, see her again? Get her used to you before you go all ‘transaction’.”
Craig turned from the cityscape, the endless lights doing nothing to illuminate the hollow feeling Marco’s words carved out. He walked back to the sofa, the leather sighing under his weight. The bandage pulled. He ignored it.
“She works the morning shift,” Craig said, more to himself than to Marco. “Seven to three. I could go in. Be a customer. Talk to her.”
“There’s a revolutionary concept,” Marco said, deadpan. “Talking. Without the threat of financial ruin hanging over her head like a guillotine.”
“It’s not a threat to her. It’s a solution for him.” Even as he said it, it tasted like a lie. A clean, clinical lie. Derek was the problem. Craig would be the solution. It was a neat, selfish equation.
Marco just raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Craig’s fingers tightened around his glass. The logic was sound. Terrifying, but sound. If he walked in tomorrow with a smirk and a too-large tip, she’d remember him as the weird, wounded guy from last night. It would be a thread. A connection he could pull on, slowly. The alternative was having Sal and his crew drag a sobbing, terrified Mya into a back room somewhere. The image made something acidic burn in his throat.
He’d seen that look before on other faces. He’d been the cause of it. It had never mattered.
It would matter if it was her.
“Fine,” Craig snapped, the word brittle. “Fine. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll be charming. I’ll be… fucking normal. But the debt doesn’t disappear, Marco. It just sits there, ticking. And Derek gets a stay of execution, not a pardon.”
Marco’s mouth quirked. “See? You can be taught. Now, do you want me to make the call to Sal or not? The marker’s still in our system. We can freeze it, put a note on it. ‘Hands off, Craig’s new project.’ The old man won’t like the cash flow stopping, but he’ll like the alternative less if you blow it up.”
Craig drained the rest of his bourbon, the heat a poor substitute for the fire he wanted to direct at Derek, at the situation, at his own sudden, inconvenient conscience. “Yeah. Make the call. Tell Sal to pull the marker and bring it to me. I hold the paper. No one else touches it. And no one—no one—goes near Derek until I say so. I want him sweating, but I don’t want him desperate enough to do something stupid with her.”
“Like sell her to someone less sentimental?” Marco said, pulling out his phone.
“Don’t.”
Marco held up a placating hand and put the phone to his ear, walking toward the library for relative privacy. Craig heard the low murmur of his voice, the sharp commands in Italian. The business was settling. A line item was being relocated on a ledger only a few people ever saw.
It should have felt like a victory. It felt like building a cage and calling it a home.
He sat in the silence Marco left behind. The penthouse was too big, too quiet. The scent of jasmine from the dying bouquets on the dining table was cloying. He thought of the coffee shop smell—burnt sugar, sour milk, the earthy scent of ground beans. He thought of the quiet concentration on her face as she’d wrapped his hand, the way she’d tuned out the buzzing phone until she couldn’t.
He got up, wincing, and went to his bedroom. In the walk-in closet, amid rows of tailored suits and polished shoes, was a small safe. He spun the dial, the clicks loud in the silence. Inside, next to a spare pistol and a stack of passports, was a simple wooden box. He lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in velvet, were his mother’s things. A pair of emerald earrings she never took off. A thin gold bracelet with a broken clasp. A faded photograph of her laughing, her dark curls wild, her arm around a boy of about six with a scraped knee and a defiant smile—him. He rarely opened this box. The loneliness inside it was a physical force, an old ghost that could still knock the air from his lungs.
He didn’t take anything out. He just looked at the picture. He looked at his mother’s face, at the unguarded joy in it. He hadn’t seen a look like that on a woman’s face in years. Not directed at him. Not real.
He slammed the box shut, the sound final. He locked the safe.
He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t going to take something precious and grind it into dust. He was going to… acquire it. And then he was going to protect it. The difference felt monumental, even if the first step was the same.
Marco reappeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Sorted. Sal’s bringing the paper over tonight. Derek’s been flagged as ‘under review.’ He’ll get a call tomorrow telling him his repayment schedule is being ‘re-evaluated.’ It’ll buy you a week, maybe two, before he starts pissing himself.”
Craig nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Good.”
“You’re really doing this the hard way, you know that?” Marco’s voice was softer now, stripped of its usual sarcasm. “The easy way is a wire transfer and a clean break. This? This is a romance novel written by a trigger-happy idiot.”
“Since when do you read romance novels?”
“Since my best friend started acting like he’s in one.” Marco pushed off the doorframe. “Get some sleep. You look like death. And try to think of something to say to her tomorrow that isn’t ‘nice bandaging’ or ‘wanna see my safe?’”
Craig gave him a middle finger. Marco just laughed, heading for the elevator.
The silence descended again, heavier this time. Craig stood in the middle of his bedroom, surrounded by proof of every conquest, every empty transaction. The Italian sheets, the bespoke suits, the view that cost more than most people’s lives. It was a perfect, gilded shell.
He walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Down in the grid of the city, in a small, lit rectangle he imagined was hers, Mya was probably asleep. Or lying awake, staring at her ceiling, listening for the buzz of her phone. Trapped in a cage made of rules and debt and a man’s fragile temper.
He was going to trade one cage for another. The only difference was, he wanted to be inside it with her.
The thought was a cold shock. It wasn’t just possession. It was proximity. It was sharing the same air, the same silence. It was a need so profound it felt like a sickness.
He’d go tomorrow. He’d order a coffee. He’d make her laugh again, if he could. He’d be a customer. A regular. He’d build something, brick by stupid brick, across a laminate counter.
And the whole time, the debt would sit in his safe, a stone in his pocket, waiting to drop.
And the whole time, the debt would sit in his safe, a stone in his pocket, waiting to drop.
He arrived at the coffee shop just after eleven, the knife wound a stiff, complaining knot beneath his dark sweater. The flickering neon sign still buzzed its erratic song. Through the grimy window, he saw her. Mya was behind the counter, her hair pulled up in a curly ponytail that left tendrils framing her neck. She wore a simple black cotton t-shirt and low-rise jeans.
She was wiping down a small table, reaching across it to gather stray sugar packets. The motion made the hem of her shirt rise a little, revealing a sliver of skin at the small of her back. Craig’s breath caught, not at the skin, but at the vulnerability of it. The door chimed behind someone else.
A man in a cheap grey suit walked in, not towards the counter, but straight towards Mya. He moved with a familiar, entitled purpose. Derek. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her waist, his fingers splaying possessively. He didn’t just touch her; he tugged the back of her shirt down, a sharp, correcting yank that made her flinch slightly.
He said something low into her ear. Craig saw the immediate effect. Her shoulders dropped, just a fraction, as if absorbing a physical blow. She nodded her head once, a tight, mechanical dip of her chin.
The guy—Derek—huffed, looked pointedly at his watch, then took her chin in his hand. He turned her face towards him and said something stern, his lips barely moving. He kissed her then, a brief, dry press of his mouth against hers that felt more like a stamp of ownership than affection. He turned and walked out, not looking back.
Mya stood frozen for a second. Then she let out a breath, a visible sag in her posture, and went back to cleaning the table with renewed, almost frantic focus. The second she slipped back behind the safety of the counter, Craig pushed the door open.
The bell jangled. She didn’t look up, her voice automatically cheerful but drained. “Hi, what can I get for— wait.” Her eyes lifted. “Craig. Sorry. Uh, black coffee again?”
A smile returned to her face, breaking through the pale tension that had been there moments before. It was tired, but it was real. It hit him with a physical warmth, that smile, a sensation far better and more disarming than he’d remembered.
“You remembered,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter. He kept his voice easy, burying the cold fury that image of Derek’s hands had ignited. “I’m flattered, sweetheart.”
“Hard to forget a guy who needs the whole first aid kit,” she said, turning to get a cup. Her movements were slower today, weighed down. “Large, right?”
“Please.” He watched her carefully.
She glanced at his bandaged knuckles as she set the cup under the brewer. “It’s fine. It’ll scar, probably. You should have gotten stitches.”
He shrugged. “I’ll survive. So, you keep a first aid kit here for people who randomly need it?”
She nodded, ringing up his coffee. “Yeah. I mean, you never know when someone could need it.” She looked down at his left side, where the knife graze was beneath his sweater. “You should really have a doctor look at that. It looked pretty bad yesterday.”
He leaned against the counter, the gesture casual but his focus absolute. “It’s fine. How do you know it’s bad? You never saw it.”
She kept her eyes on the register, her voice dropping. “No, but I saw where it was. Through your shirt. It was stained dark.” She paused, shaking her head as if clearing it. “Sorry. It’s none of my business. Was that coffee for here or to go? I forgot to ask.”
The question was a retreat. He could see her pulling back behind the polite barista script, the walls going up after the small intimacy of her observation. He couldn’t let her.
“For here,” he said, softer than he intended. He didn’t move from the counter. “It’s okay. You can ask.”
She finally met his eyes, her blue ones searching his face for a joke, for the smirk. He kept his expression open, neutral. It felt foreign. “It’s just… you should be careful. Infections are no joke.”
“I’ll be careful.” He took the coffee from her hand, letting his fingers brush hers again. A deliberate, gentle contact. He didn’t move to a table. “Slow day again?”
“Mid-week lull.” She busied herself wiping the already-clean countertop. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of the things she wasn’t saying—about the man who’d just left, about the stain on his shirt, about the careful way he was holding his body. She glanced at the door, then back at him. “You’re not at work?”
“I make my own hours.” It wasn’t a lie. “Family business.”
“Lucky.”
The word hung there, weighted with the opposite meaning. He wondered what her family was like. The file said Indiana. Parents still together? Siblings? He wanted to ask. He wanted to ask a hundred things. Instead, he took a sip of the bitter coffee. “This is good.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “It’s just coffee.”
“You make it right.” He watched her polish the portafilter. “You like it here? The job?”
She shrugged, the motion lifting the fabric of her t-shirt where Derek’s hands had been moments before. “It’s alright. I like coffee, and I get a free drink a day, so it’s got some benefits.” She looked out the grimy window at the passing traffic, then back at him, her head tilting. “So, have you always lived in the city?” she asks.
He nodded, leaning his forearms on the counter. The laminate was still damp from her cloth. “Born and raised. Never lived more than twenty blocks from where we’re standing. You?”
“Indiana,” she said, her voice softening with the word. “A town so small the coffee shop was just a counter in the gas station. This felt… big.”
“Big city dreams?”
She laughed, a short, genuine sound that warmed the stale air. “Not exactly. Philosophy degree, actually.”
Craig’s eyebrow lifted. He’d read it in the file, but hearing her say it was different. “No shit. That’s heavy.”
“It’s useless, is what it is.” She said it lightly, but there was a resignation underneath. “I thought I’d teach. Or write. Then the reality of student loans hit, and well.” She gestured around the cramped shop. “This. My own fault for following my heart instead of a spreadsheet.”
He spent the next hour leaning over the counter talking to her. Her coworker, a bored-looking kid with a lip ring, sat on a milk crate in the corner, absorbed in their phone. The shop was mostly empty, wrapped in a warm, quiet hum. Craig listened. He learned about her favorite existentialist writers, about the diner back home with pie she still dreamed about, about the stubborn hope she’d clung to when she first moved here.
He responded in turn, stripping his life of its edges. He talked about the city’ changing neighborhoods, about a forgotten pizza place he loved, about the vague, non-threatening “import-export” family business. He noticed things. The way she’d bite the inside of her cheek when thinking. How her hands moved when she explained a concept, drawing invisible shapes in the air.
He noticed, most of all, the reaction to the pet name. Whenever he threw a casual “sweetheart” into the conversation, her cheeks would turn the faintest, most beguiling shade of pink. She’d look down or away for a second, focusing intently on wiping the steam wand or rearranging straws. It was maddening. A tiny, involuntary crack in her careful composure.
The quiet was a living thing between them, comfortable and charged. He could feel the clock ticking, though. The lunch rush would shatter this. He wanted more of the quiet, more of her voice wrapping around words like “phenomenology” and “meritocracy.”
A woman with a stroller came in, breaking the spell. Mya snapped into efficient service mode, making a complicated latte with extra foam. Craig waited, sipping his now-cold coffee. When she was done, he saw her glance at the clock. It was nearly two.
“What time do you get off?” he asked, his voice lower.
She looked back at the clock, as if confirming. “Uh, three today.”
“Wanna grab something to eat? I’ll pick you up.”
Her smile was immediate, then it faltered, turning slightly disappointed. She shook her head. “I shouldn’t. My boyfriend would have a meltdown.”
Craig nodded, keeping his face neutral. He pictured Derek’s pinched face, the correcting tug on her shirt. “What, we’d just be new friends grabbing food. City’s full of ’em.”
She considered this, her head tilting. “Fair point.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I have to pick up his dry cleaning after work. It’s all the way over on 10th.”
He seized the opening. “Perfect. I’ll give you a ride. See? Saves you time. And free food.”
A real smile broke through then, bright and unexpected. It made the freckles across her nose dance. “Fine. But I can pay for my own food.”
“Can’t give me an inch, can you?” he taunted, a familiar smirk finding its way back to his lips.
She met his gaze, held it for a second longer than necessary. Her blue eyes were sharp, playful. “You’d go a mile if I did.”
The air left his lungs. It wasn’t just a deflection. It was a challenge. A recognition of the game he was playing. And it almost, almost, felt like she was flirting with him. The possibility was a live wire in his chest.
“Three o’clock,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t be late, sweetheart.”
He left a hundred-dollar bill under his empty cup, a stupid, extravagant gesture he didn’t think about. He just needed to move, to breathe air that wasn’t thick with the scent of her and the dizzying possibility she’d just offered. He pushed out onto the street, the city noise a welcome assault.
He stood on the pavement, the sun weak through the haze. He replayed it. You’d go a mile if I did. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering. He needed to tell Marco the marker was on hold indefinitely. He needed to ensure Derek would be conveniently, utterly preoccupied at three o’clock.
He needed her in his car, in a booth somewhere, anywhere, where the only buzz was the sound of her voice. He started walking, a plan solidifying with every step, the ghost of her pink cheeks leading him on.