3: It's Friday

My heart suddenly started pounding. RUN – from what? Santiago?

I glanced at him. He hadn’t noticed anything yet, just sipping on his coffee.

Carefully, I sat my cappuccino down, hiding the secret message.

I looked around, my eyes scanning the café for a sign. A signal. An explanation.

The barista was making coffee. One waiter was placing pastries on the display at the counter, and another was cleaning tables. Suddenly, a pair of green eyes made contact, and her gaze was firm, knowing. The waitress’ head flickered toward the door, like she was saying, what are you waiting for? RUN!

“Is everything alright, mi ángel?” Santiago’s soft voice cut through, almost making me jump.

I turned toward him, a little too fast. I forced a smile that felt brittle. “Just – a little too strong,” I lied, gesturing at my cappuccino. “I’ll… ask for more foam.” His eyes dipped to my untouched cappuccino, then back to my face. The lion’s head lifted, interested.

Santiago’s mouth tilted, amused. “Cappuccino con espuma extra,” he called out to the barista.

“Go,” he said. Soft, indulgent. “But come back.”

I slid from the booth, palms unsteady, napkin hidden beneath my cup. The room seemed to tilt the moment my heels touched the floor. The sound of soft thuds, as rain hit the windows.

The green-eyed waitress met me halfway, tray to her chest like a shield. Up close I noticed her adorable freckles, scattered like constellations over pale skin; she couldn’t be older than me by much.

“Foam?” She repeated for anyone listening. Her lips barely moved. “Kitchen. Back door. Go now.”

My mind was racing. “I can’t just –- “

“You can,” she whispered. “You really should.”

“But why?” I tried to keep my voice as low as possible.

“No time to explain,” she smiled, gestured toward the barista behind the counter, still playing her part for prying eyes. “You must get out before it’s too late – before you meet...”

She shook her head, took the cappuccino from my hands, and hurried toward the counter.

Before following her, I quickly glanced toward Santiago’s table. His eyes were following my every move.

I gave him my most innocent smile, tugging a strand of hair behind my ear. Then I walked over to the counter, like I just went to retrieve my cappuccino. The waitress had handed it over to the barista, who was in the process of adding extra foam to it, oblivious to the tension unfolding between us.

“Before I meet who?” I whispered.

“El Fuego.” It was barely even a whisper, but more like an anxious breath.

“El, who?”

A chime by the door interrupted us, and the way the waitress’ eyes widened, and her breath caught warned me of danger. “Mi*rda…” She took a step back, holding her breath.

I turned to look at whoever got her rattled and flinched at the sight of a man standing right behind me.

He was tall, dark-blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and had a vicious scar across his left eye. He was wearing a white shirt underneath a dark leather jacket. He took one look at me, smiling with a worrisome hunger, before addressing the waitress. “Ana.” His voice was low and cold, carrying a Polish accent. “It’s Friday.” His eyes were unnervingly cold, and Ana, the waitress, took another step back without shifting her gaze, calling faintly, “Papá?”

An older man, slightly silver haired, with an apron on, appeared from the kitchen.

He clapped his hands together twice, dusting off some flour.

“Sí, hija?” He looked at his daughter with kind eyes, who stood frozen in fear. Then he followed her gaze to the scarred man, still standing right in front of me.

“Marek Kowalczyk,” he said, voice flat. “You’re early.”

“It’s Friday,” Marek repeated. “I’m right on time.”

Then Marek’s attention slid back to me, lingering with an ugly curiosity.

“I’m not leaving empty-handed,” his eyes swallowed my wet white dress. “Get me the envelope, or…”

Marek’s gaze dragged over me, slow and mean. “I take collateral.”

A chill rippled up my spine. I took a half step back – but he caught me. His hand shot out like a serpent and locked itself around my wrist. Panick shot through me, and just as I opened my mouth to protest -

“Let her go.” Santiago’s voice was low, commanding, coming from behind me.

“Ah, El León,” Marek’s grin was menacing. “You just happened to be out enjoying coffee on collecting day – coincidence? Or are you playing doorman for a simple baker?”

I could hear Santiago moving closer behind me with slow, deliberate steps.

“That simple baker is my friend, and I actually happen to like this café mucho.” His footsteps stopped a few paces behind me. “Last chance, Marek: Let... her… go!”  He dragged out the last words, pausing between each word to emphasize the warning, each syllable cutting cleanly through the café.

Marek’s grip tightened, bone deep. “Make me.”

Heat rolled off Santiago behind me.

“Valerie,” his voice was calm, like we were alone in the café. “Be ready to do a pivot.”

Despite the fear and pain from Marek's grip, I half-turned my head in surprise. How did he know? How did he know that I even knew what a pivot was?

My mouth was dry. “How--“

“Uno,” he breathed.

Marek started laughing, shaking my body.

“You’re counting to a tantrum, kitty?”

“Dos,” Santiago continued, unbothered by Marek’s taunting.

I saw Ana steadying her hands, angling the metal tray just enough for me to see the shimmer of milk, steaming and ready.

“—Tres.”