Chapter 2 - The Job Enzo Could Not Give to a Soldier

Khloe stared at Enzo.

“You want me to listen.”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

He did not answer immediately.

Instead, he slid a folded napkin across the table.

Three names were written inside.

Sal Romano.

Victor Dane.

Father Luca Serrano.

Khloe recognized the first.

Sal.

The man who had almost broken Tommy’s face downstairs.

The second name meant nothing.

The third made her look up.

“A priest?”

Enzo watched her.

“Do not decide what people are by their titles.”

Khloe looked at the list again.

“What do they have in common?”

“They think I trust them.”

A pause.

“I trust none of them.”

Khloe pushed the napkin back.

“Then ask your men.”

“They already know my men.”

“And they don’t know me.”

“Exactly.”

Khloe laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

“You want a waitress to spy on your own people.”

“I want a waitress to keep doing her job.”

“And listen.”

“Yes.”

“What happens if I hear something?”

“You remember it.”

“What happens if I hear nothing?”

“You go home.”

“And my debt?”

Enzo leaned back.

“That depends.”

Khloe’s expression hardened.

“On how useful I am.”

“On whether you accept.”

She looked at him.

He was offering money.

But not charity.

She had been right.

Investment.

“How much?”

“Your father’s medical debt.”

Her throat tightened.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“Seventy thousand?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Enzo’s eyes stayed on her.

“Because someone inside my organization is selling information.”

“What kind?”

“Routes.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“People?”

His silence answered.

Khloe felt cold.

Enzo continued.

“Three men disappeared in two months.”

“Your men?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?”

“We found one.”

She did not ask how.

Enzo said:

“The others vanished after private meetings held here.”

“The restaurant.”

“Yes.”

“And you think one of those three names is involved.”

“I think one of them talks too much.”

Khloe glanced at the door.

“What if it’s Sal?”

“Then you tell me.”

“What if it’s your priest?”

“You tell me.”

“What if it’s someone else?”

Enzo smiled faintly.

“Then you impress me.”

Khloe hated that smile.

Not because it was cruel.

Because part of her liked that he thought she could.

She stood.

“I need to think.”

“No.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Enzo’s expression changed.

Not anger.

Interest.

“You are right.”

He gestured toward the door.

“Go home.”

Khloe frowned.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She reached the door.

Then stopped.

“What if I say no tomorrow?”

“Then you keep your job.”

She looked back.

“And the debt?”

“Still yours.”

There it was.

Not kindness.

Choice.

Expensive choice.

Khloe opened the door.

Frankie stood outside.

He looked at Enzo.

“Boss?”

Enzo answered:

“Drive her home.”

Khloe immediately said:

“No.”

Both men looked at her.

She crossed her arms.

“I take the bus.”

Frankie almost smiled.

Enzo did not.

“It is after midnight.”

“I know how clocks work.”

“Someone may have seen you come upstairs.”

That stopped her.

Enzo continued.

“If someone is watching me, they may now watch you.”

Khloe stared.

“You said I could go home.”

“You can.”

“Now you’re telling me I might be followed.”

“Yes.”

“That information would have been useful before the meeting.”

Enzo nodded.

“Yes.”

Khloe rubbed her forehead.

Then looked at Frankie.

“Fine.”

In the car, she said nothing.

Frankie did not either.

Until they reached her building.

Then he looked at the cracked brick entrance.

“You live here?”

Khloe glared.

“No. I enjoy getting dropped off in random neighborhoods.”

He smiled.

“You always talk like that?”

“When I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

She looked at him.

“How do you know?”

“Boss notices.”

Khloe’s hand stopped on the door handle.

“What does that mean?”

Frankie shrugged.

“He notices everything.”

“That’s comforting.”

She got out.

Her apartment was on the third floor.

One bedroom.

Thin walls.

Half-empty refrigerator.

Bills on the table.

Her father’s last hospital statement sat beneath the electric notice.

$69,842.17.

Khloe stared at it for a long time.

Then the phone rang.

Unknown number.

She almost ignored it.

Then answered.

“Hello?”

A man spoke in Sicilian.

Not Enzo.

Older.

Rough.

“You should have kept your mouth shut tonight.”

Khloe froze.

The line went dead.

She stood in the dark kitchen.

Then looked through the window.

Across the street, a black sedan idled beneath a broken streetlight.

Khloe immediately called the only person who had warned her this might happen.

Enzo answered on the first ring.

“What?”

Her voice stayed steady.

“Someone just threatened me.”

Silence.

Then:

“Lock the door.”

“It is locked.”

“Stay away from the windows.”

She did.

“Who called?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did they say?”

She repeated the Sicilian sentence.

Enzo went quiet.

Too quiet.

Khloe whispered:

“You know who talks like that.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His answer came cold.

“My uncle.”

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And suddenly the three names on Enzo’s napkin felt less important than the man who had not been written there.

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