Chapter 2 - The Woman Behind the Kitchen Door
"My father's been dead for two years," I said.
The stranger nodded.
"I know."
I set the copper kettle on its stand.
"How?"
He looked toward the dining room.
"Perhaps we should discuss that when your stepmother isn't listening."
I didn't move.
For forty nights, this man had spoken to me about nothing beyond coffee, rain, and the occasional snowfall.
Now he knew my father.
And apparently knew enough about Maureen to distrust her.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"Gabriel."
"Gabriel what?"
"Rossi."
The name hit me like cold water.
Everyone in New York had heard of Gabriel Rossi.
He owned restaurants, freight companies, and several Manhattan properties. Newspapers frequently connected his name to organized crime, although the most serious allegations were difficult to prove.
He was the kind of man people whispered about after checking who might be listening.
And I had been serving him coffee for forty nights.
"You're Gabriel Rossi?"
"Yes."
I looked at the copper kettle.
Then at him.
"Well, that's unfortunate."
One corner of his mouth lifted.
"Why?"
"Because I was just beginning to think you were normal."
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Quiet, surprised, almost disbelieving.
From the dining room, Chelsea called, "Mr. Rossi?"
Gabriel's expression changed.
"Make your coffee, Quinn."
I looked at him.
"Are you asking as a customer or ordering as a mafia boss?"
His smile returned.
"As a customer."
"Good."
I began grinding the beans.
---
When I brought the cup to the counter, Chelsea was standing beside Gabriel's stool.
Maureen hovered nearby.
Both wore expressions I'd seen at wealthy customers' tables.
The particular smile people use when calculating how much someone else might be worth.
I set the cup down.
Gabriel lifted it.
Inhaled.
Then tasted it.
"That's my coffee."
Chelsea laughed weakly.
"Obviously, she has more practice."
Gabriel looked at her.
"Practice generally helps."
He placed another hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
I pushed it back.
"You already paid."
"That was for the first cup."
"You didn't drink the first cup."
"Exactly."
I shook my head.
"Then one hundred is plenty."
His gaze lingered on my face.
Then he nodded.
"Fair."
Maureen stepped forward.
"Quinn, kitchen."
I didn't move immediately.
Gabriel looked at her.
"She's still speaking with a customer."
Maureen's smile tightened.
"She's my employee."
"Then I trust you pay her for every hour she works."
Something changed in Maureen's face.
Only briefly.
But I noticed.
Gabriel did too.
---
At twelve fifteen, he stood.
"Good night, Quinn."
"Good night, Mr. Rossi."
He stopped.
"Gabriel."
I almost smiled.
"Good night, Gabriel."
He left.
Chelsea hurried to the window and watched the SUV depart.
Then she turned toward me.
"You knew who he was?"
"No."
"Don't lie."
"I'm not."
Maureen stepped closer.
"You've been taking money from him."
"He tips."
"How much?"
I hesitated.
The tips were mine.
I had saved most of them in a credit-union account Maureen didn't know existed.
"That's personal."
Her expression hardened.
"Nothing involving this business is personal."
She reached for my wrist.
I stepped away.
"Don't."
For a moment, she looked startled.
I had never spoken to her like that before.
Then she smiled coldly.
"You're getting very confident."
I looked at the spot behind the counter where my father used to stand.
Maybe I was.
---
That night, while Chelsea and Maureen argued downstairs, I opened the drawer beneath my bed.
Inside was an old photograph.
Dad standing beside the café's original espresso machine.
He wore a ridiculous paper crown from my eighth birthday.
Beside him stood a younger man in a dark suit.
I had never paid much attention to the stranger.
Now I did.
Dark eyes.
Straight nose.
The faint scar near his eyebrow.
Gabriel Rossi.
I turned the photograph over.
Dad's handwriting covered the back.
Opening day. Quinn's Café. With Gabriel, who helped us keep the doors open.
My hands began shaking.
Gabriel hadn't discovered the café forty nights ago.
May you like
He had known it for years.
And something told me his arrival at midnight was not an accident.
