Under the Mafia's Touch (MxM)

"How many shifts until I sell my soul?"

Liora didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the question slipped between her teeth as she counted the stack of bills for the third time. Coffee orders hissed from the percolator. Somewhere in the kitchen, the fryer coughed oil like an old smoker. Her fingers itched toward her phone, toward the hospital’s number, but she shoved it back into her apron pocket before she could dial.

“Table six needs more coffee,” Doris called from the counter, not looking up from her crossword.

“On it.”

The bell over the door chimed. Liora grabbed the pot, pasted on the same smile she’d been wearing for twelve hours straight, and turned toward the booth—only to see Benny Madsen and his brick-wall sidekick slide in like they owned the place.

They didn’t own it. Not yet.

Benny’s voice carried without effort. “Doris, we need to talk.”

Doris stiffened but kept her pen on the crossword. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“Not selling,” Benny said with a grin too wide for his face. “Collecting.”

Liora set the coffee pot down, feeling her heartbeat skip. Benny’s guy—tall, bald, with a tattoo snaking up his neck—leaned back in the booth, eyes scanning the room like he was picking furniture to smash.

“Rent’s not due for another week,” Doris said flatly.

“This ain’t rent.” Benny flicked his fingers toward the cash register. “It’s insurance.”

Liora couldn’t help it—her mouth moved before her brain warned her. “Insurance against what, Benny? The weather?”

His head swiveled toward her, grin freezing into something thinner. “Against accidents, sweetheart. Fires, break-ins… men getting jumpy.”

The bald one chuckled under his breath.

Doris’s voice hardened. “She’s just staff. Leave her out of this.”

Benny’s gaze stayed locked on Liora. “Oh, I’m just making conversation. Right, sweetheart?”

“Right,” Liora said coolly, though her hand tightened on the coffee pot handle.

“Good,” Benny said. “Because conversation can be friendly… or it can be expensive.” He leaned forward. “What’s your name?”

“She’s not giving you anything,” Doris snapped.

But Liora had already decided—show fear, and you’re done. “Name’s Liora. Now are you ordering something, or are you just here to loiter?”

Benny’s eyes glittered. “Coffee. Black. And bring it with a smile.”

She poured it slow enough that steam drifted between them like smoke. Benny didn’t blink.

When she turned to leave, his voice followed, lower now. “We’ll finish this chat after closing.”

The bell over the door jingled again. The diner’s hum dipped.

And in walked a ghost.

Varian Kole didn’t belong in daylight. The suit—dark charcoal, cut so clean it could draw blood—absorbed the cheap fluorescent light. His presence made the booth’s vinyl seats look cheaper, the walls dingier, the air heavier. He walked without hurry, but every step seemed to arrive before it should.

Benny’s grin cracked. “Well, well—”

“Stand up,” Varian said. Not loud. Not rushed. Just final.

Benny froze. The bald one tensed, but Varian’s eyes didn’t even flicker toward him.

“Varian Kole,” Benny said, like he was trying the name on. “Didn’t know you liked greasy spoons.”

“I don’t.” Varian stopped at the booth. “You’re in my seat.”

“This ain’t your—” Benny began.

Varian’s hand moved, a slow, deliberate reach toward Benny’s coffee cup. He tipped it just enough for the black liquid to creep toward the rim. The bald one shifted as if to grab him, then thought better of it.

Benny slid out of the booth.

“That’s better,” Varian said, stepping past them without another look.

Liora stood rooted to the floor, the coffee pot still in her hand.

Varian’s gaze landed on her like a physical touch. “Liora.”

Her mouth went dry. “Varian.”

“You’re working here?”

“Clearly.”

He looked at the bills on the counter, at Doris’s tight face, at Benny and his sidekick hovering near the door. “We’ll talk.”

“I’m on shift,” she said sharply.

“Not anymore.”

He turned, speaking over his shoulder. “Outside.”

Benny opened his mouth—then shut it when Varian glanced at him.

Liora set the coffee pot down with a hard clink. “If you’re here to play hero, don’t.”

“I’m not here to play anything.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Those two were about to put you in a corner you wouldn’t walk away from.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “No. You haven’t.”

The door swung open again as Benny and the bald one slipped out.

Doris hissed, “Go. I’ll cover the register.”

Liora followed Varian outside, her legs moving before her brain caught up.

The street was quiet, just the hiss of a bus pulling away. Benny and his man were halfway down the block. Varian didn’t look at them; they didn’t look back.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“You still ask questions before saying thank you?”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I didn’t ask for your permission.” He studied her face. “How long have you been working here?”

“Long enough to know you shouldn’t be anywhere near it.”

“Threats from the Marcellis?”

Her stomach tightened. “It’s none of your business.”

His voice softened in a way that was somehow worse than anger. “Everything about you is my business.”

“That ended seven years ago.”

He stepped closer, close enough she could see the tiny scar at his jawline. “Seven years, Liora, and you think I forgot?”

She bit back the reply that would have given too much away.

“Get your things,” Varian said. “You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not—”

A sharp metallic pop cut her off. The sound was small, but her body recognized it before her mind did.

Gunshot.

Varian’s arm was around her in a blink, yanking her toward the diner’s brick wall. Across the street, a black sedan peeled away, tires shrieking.

He pressed her into the wall, scanning the rooftops, the windows. His eyes were colder now, the kind of cold that meant something was about to break.

“You’re done here,” he said. Not a suggestion.

“My shift—”

“Is over,” he said, gripping her wrist, pulling her toward a black SUV that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Varian—”

The back door swung open. Inside, leather seats, tinted windows, the faint smell of gun oil.

She planted her feet. “I’m not getting in that car.”

“You can walk back inside,” he said evenly, “and wait for the next bullet, or you can get in.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She got in.

Varian slid in beside her, the SUV moving before the door shut.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“My place.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he said, pulling a phone from his pocket. “You’ve got enemies now, Liora. And I’m the only one they fear enough to keep you breathing.”

Her throat went tight. “And what does that cost?”

He ended his call, eyes on hers. “We’ll discuss the price when we get there.”

The city blurred past outside.

Somewhere between one streetlight and the next, Liora realized she hadn’t told him the most important thing — the one truth that would change everything about why she couldn’t go with him.

She thought about Wren in her hospital bed, about the bills on the counter, about the look in Varian’s eyes when he’d said everything about you is my business.

She stayed silent.

For now.