CHAPTER 5

It has been all a tragedy in the life of KYOLINE DIEGO since her dad got killed. He was a made man—until he decided to steal from his bosses and got executed and served to the fishes in BRODA CREEK. He paid in blood, while her family was more or less exiled from the KASH MANCHESTER and left to fend for themselves.

She was really fortunate to have been able to stay on at her own high school after winning a scholarship. But everything else outside of school changed overnight, other than that. They had to give up the spacious and comfortable home they had and ended up with a small one-bedroom apartment in a run-down building. And money then became an everyday worry.

She tries to reassure herself regarding the money by believing that when she gets out of here, she will call TENZ JER'SEY to find out if they need any more staff for the rest of the week. That is, if she ever gets out of here. Because even in trying to keep her thoughts away from worst-case scenarios, panic attacks at her body.

She is bucking against the seat. She loathes being here in this tight space with this man. His body too big for the confines, his scent surrounds her—a mixture of smoky and spicy.

It has always been made perfectly clear to her while she was growing up, you stay the hell away from the police. They're all friends with each other and support the business of the rest of us who are not part of their own little exclusive club, especially people like her who've basically spent their entire lives in the presence of the mafia. She's been told all her life that perhaps the police are slimy and crawly and they're like insects you'd want to swat off your skin.

Although, for some unknown reason, this man is different—smooth, unblemished, ice.

He brings his car to a halt on some random street with no police station in sight. Getting out, he jerks open the rear door, grasps her arm, and pulls her out onto the sidewalk.

"If you wanted me to leave, you should have asked me," she complains, trying futilely to push his hand off her arm while trying at the same time to push her short dress down over her thighs.

He takes her down the street.

"Where are we going?" She is pleased with herself for being able to get her voice bored despite the desperation rioting within her.

"You'll see," is his infuriatingly curt answer.

He catches her eye, and she slams a scowl at him. But he ignores her cold stare, instead allowing his gaze to run along her body. "Nice dress." He maintains his focus on her legs. "Stolen, I suppose?"

She hesitates for a millisecond. "Of course, um, it isn't."

"You're a bad liar," he drawls with an infuriatingly casual tone. "You should just always plead the fifth."

"Huh?"

"You know, your right under the constitution not to answer so you won't incriminate yourself. Don't they teach you anything in school anymore?"

"Funnily enough," she replies airily, "the type of schools that mafia families go to aren't really interested in gaining the niceties of American society." She obviously knows some notion what the fifth amendment is about but will not give him cause to think of anything other than the fact that her dress belongs to someone else. He knows her full name, so he will already have checked out everything about her, and having a DIEGO for a father and a KASH MANCHESTER made man for a boyfriend makes it pointless for her to even try denying the fact that she has any connection with the mafia.

He shakes his head at her. His hand grazing the small of her back is warm, and she chides herself for the shiver that now dances its way down her spine as a result of the lash of cold air that now whips about them—it has nothing to do with the man escorting her like she's some perp being led down the cellblock.

He slows down and stops in front of a coffee shop between a bakery and a small grocery store.

"I said we were going to the station. Why did you bring me here?"

"I need a coffee."

She looks at him incredulously. "Seriously? You kidnap me, and now we're doing a Starbucks run?" VIN, can't the guy get a caffeine high on his own time?

"Not Starbucks," he corrects suavely, pushing open the door. "I have standards." She lingers at the doorway, wistful at the park across the way. She can see the old men playing at the wooden tables and chairs, heads bent over their chessboards. She doesn't have time to play in the park anymore. Either she's working, caring for her mom, or caring for her siblings and trying to give them a good upbringing. Her father used to take her to the park a lot when she was younger, and she would play with the older guys.

That was when he'd still been around. She can't keep her mind from going back to the time he died. Her mom never worked a single day in her life. She'd pleaded with her to get an ordinary job, you know, at a shop or something. But nobody had wanted to hire a woman with a name like Fiorelli…

"Do you play?" His voice distracts her from her reverie.

"Yeah," she answers on a wistful note.

"Who taught you?"

"My dad." She bites her lips together. What in the world just came out of her mouth? She shouldn't say anything about herself. This is how they trap you into talking. By asking dumb questions, by acting like they're your friend. And before you can even think about it, you've said something you shouldn't have. An innocent little detail which you think is innocuous but which they pack into their greater jigsaw of information collection. "What about you—can you play chess?

" She tries to steer the conversation away at once.

"I don't play," he replies brusquely. She nestles herself behind him into the coffee shop and surveys herself around. The joint hasn't looked as if it has been refurbished since the 1950s and has a retro ambiance. Some customers are tucked into the cozy booths with their crimson leather chairs, and there's a big glass counter full of tempting cakes and ice creams, reminding her that she is famished.

The coffee machine sparkles in the background as it whistles along, releasing heavenly aromas into the air, and there's even an old-fashioned soda fountain.

Hi, DIDI." He salutes the woman behind the counter.

"Happy birthday, handsome," she almost purrs over him, pulling from under the register what looks like an envelope with a birthday card.

"You didn't have to. You spoil me, DIDI."

"As if I'd ever forget," she smirks.

As they stand by the counter, a woman who wears the same café uniform passes by. She bats her eyelashes at him. "Hey, birthday boy!" she says with a flirtatious tone.

She can't resist rolling her eyes. Standing there with his god-like looks, he's obviously the precinct pin-up boy. Every woman in here is fantasizing about him and not even making an attempt to conceal it. Jeez, is there a woman in the café who isn't a member of this cop's birthday appreciation society?

"Cannoli and coffee for both of us," he says to DIDI before sweeping his dark eyes over to her. "This place serves the city's best cannoli. Ever been in here before?"

She shakes her head, fiddling with her bracelet.

"And the ice cream is the best I ever have. They make everything from scratch with their family recipes."

"I'll take them over," DIDI says with a flirtatious smile at him.

He leads her over to a table, and he indicates with a jerk of his head for her to sit. She’s obviously not important enough to waste his words on.

The entirety of her conversation with this dude is bringing an unusual tingle feeling over her. She can't help but ask herself if he is indeed a cop. But she laughs at it. He pursued her, pushed her into the backseat of his car, and shut the doors. He is definitely a cop. Why would he otherwise have been chasing her?

After they are both seated, she clamps her lips together so that she doesn't talk. She's aware that silence is a cop trick to get a person to talk. Everyone's natural response is to speak to fill the uncomfortable silence, but that's not happening today. Nuh-uh.

He leans back in his chair. "How old are you, KYOLINEDIEGO?" he barks. Jesus, everything about him is so bossy.

She sniffs. “It’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” But his stare on her makes her uncomfortable, so she can’t help but answer. “I’m, um, eighteen.”

“Ah.”

She frowns at his response. “Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?” She has no idea why his tone sounds offensive, almost as if her age explains something in his head.

“Just an observation,” he murmurs.

“Of?”

“Nothing of importance.”

There’s more silence as he stares at her. “How old are you?” she shoots back.

“Twenty-nine. And I’m old enough to know that you’re being used, KYOLINE DIEGO.”

Her spine stiffens at his tone. “What’s your name?” She’s determined to deflect the conversation. And her not knowing his name when he knows hers makes her feel at a distinct disadvantage.

“You can call me ISAAC.”

She can't prevent the unladylike ort which escapes. "I don't believe your mama baptized you ISAAC. What is your name?"

He taps a finger on the table. "You're supposed to be a smart girl. Figure it out."

She scoffs under her breath. Everything about this man is infuriating. And frightening. She just wants to get out of here. But she has no idea when he's going to let her go.

DIDI shortens them, bringing in two small plates with cannoli and two coffees. She also sets down a dessert glass next to ISAAC. And on it is a triple scoop of chocolate ice cream with five lit candles inserted into the scoops. "Happy birthday!" she trills.