Chapter 2 - Do Not Step Back First
He was close enough that I could see the pulse in his neck under the edge of the tattoo.
Not touching me. That was the thing I kept telling myself later when I tried to explain why I didn't move. He hadn't touched me. He'd stood up from the light wood table so fast his chair had scraped, and then he'd leaned in until his breath hit my cheek, warm with coffee. The dining room had gone the kind of quiet you only get in a fast-food place when the fryers are still hissing but no one is talking.
Behind him, the bald man in the dark suit hadn't moved from where he'd been standing since they'd walked in. But I felt his attention shift. It wasn't casual watching anymore.
Matteo Morealio stared at me and waited.
My hands were shaking. I hated that. The black serving tray was still in my left hand, the white disposable cup with the yellow arch logo sweating through its sleeve, the little burger box sliding half an inch every time my wrist trembled. I could feel condensation crawling down the side of the cup toward my thumb.
I made myself look at the table instead of him for half a second. Just the table. Light wood, wiped down that morning by me, a faint smear near the edge I'd missed. If I set the tray down, I'd have nothing between us. If I kept holding it, I'd look like I was using it as a shield.
I set it down.
I did it slow on purpose. I bent just enough to place the tray flat on the table, centered it between us, nudged the burger box back so it wouldn't fall. The cup made a soft stick sound when the bottom met the tray. My breathing sounded too loud to me. In, out through my nose. Steady. My manager had told us during training to breathe like that when a customer yelled, so you didn't cry on shift.
When I straightened, my hands were empty at my sides, apron strings tight at my waist. I didn't step back.
"Say that again."
His voice was lower this time. Not louder. That was worse. The first time he'd said it, it had been sharp, a command to repeat myself. Now it was almost flat, like he was giving me a chance to take it back and we both knew it.
I didn't answer right away. I looked at his eyes. Dark. Controlled. He wasn't blinking much. The slicked-back hair hadn't moved when he stood. The gray suit jacket pulled a little at the shoulder where he'd leaned forward. Up close I could see the black shirt underneath, open at the throat, and the black line of ink climbing up the side of his neck.
Somewhere to my left, a kid whispered, "Mom," and then stopped when his mom shushed him.
I thought about apologizing. It would have been so easy. Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Sorry, let me get you fresh napkins. That's what I was supposed to do. Maroon polo, black apron, smile through it, keep the line moving. I needed this job. Rent was due in nine days and my second check still hadn't cleared the hours they'd cut last week. An apology would have ended it. He would have sat back down. The bald man would have gone back to watching the windows.
My mouth opened. I felt the sorry sitting right there on my tongue.
I didn't say it.
Instead I held his gaze and let the silence do what it wanted. One second. Two. I counted my own breaths so I wouldn't look down. The warm overhead lights buzzed faintly above us. Daylight from the big windows hit the side of his jacket and made the gray look lighter than it was.
He tilted his head just a fraction, studying me. Not my body. My face. Like he was trying to figure out if I was scared and hiding it, or if I actually wasn't going to move.
"You hear me?" he said. Still quiet.
I nodded once. Short. Not submission, just acknowledgment. I wasn't going to pretend I hadn't heard him.
The bald associate shifted his weight. I caught it in my peripheral vision, a scrape of a dress shoe on tile. He didn't come forward, but he moved half a step to his right, closer to the aisle that led to the front counter. It put him between us and the door without looking like he'd done it on purpose. My stomach dropped. I'd worked enough late shifts to know what blocking an exit looked like, even when someone tried to make it casual.
Matteo didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on me.
"You going to stand there?" he asked.
I didn't know what he wanted. For me to repeat the line about power and grammar, for me to apologize, for me to flinch first. The air felt thin. My ponytail had slipped forward over my shoulder when I'd set the tray down and a strand of light brown hair stuck to my neck. I wanted to push it back but I wouldn't lift my hand. If I moved, he'd read it as backing down, and if I didn't, I didn't know how long I could hold still.
So I did nothing. I stood at the edge of the table, hands empty, breathing steady, and I let him look.
Behind the counter, I heard Denise set down a fry basket too hard. No one called out an order number. The whole dining area with its brick accent wall and daylight and smell of grease had turned into a room full of people pretending not to stare while they stared.
May you like
Matteo's jaw tightened. He didn't lean in closer. He didn't lean back either. He just stayed there, inches away, studying me like this was a test he'd given before and no one had ever waited him out.
And I didn't step back first.
