Chapter 2 - The Woman at Penny’s Diner
“Go back to sleep, honey.”
Clare’s voice was gentle when she spoke to her son.
Everything else about her had become rigid.
The boy rubbed his eyes.
One of the young men laughed.
“You keep your kid here?”
Clare stepped away from the counter, positioning herself between the men and the rear booth.
Tristan noticed.
She wasn't protecting herself.
She was protecting the boy.
“The kitchen is closed,” she repeated. “You need to leave.”
The loudest of the three men leaned across the counter.
“We're paying customers.”
“You haven't bought anything.”
“We’re trying to.”
His friends laughed.
Tristan remained seated.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was deciding how little intervention would be necessary.
He had spent years around dangerous men.
These three were not dangerous in the way his associates were dangerous.
They were reckless.
That could sometimes be worse.
“Hey,” Tristan said.
His voice was quiet.
Nobody heard him except Clare.
Her eyes moved toward him.
Tristan lifted his coffee.
“Told you I wished for a quiet night.”
For half a second, disbelief crossed Clare’s face.
Then one corner of her mouth almost moved.
The nearest man noticed Tristan.
“What are you looking at?”
Tristan drank his coffee.
“Nothing.”
The man approached.
“You calling me nothing?”
“No.”
Tristan placed the cup down carefully.
“I’m trying very hard not to call you anything.”
The diner went silent.
Clare looked between them.
The young man stepped closer.
Up close, Tristan could smell beer.
“Maybe mind your business, grandpa.”
Tristan almost smiled.
Grandpa.
Forty-two was turning out to be a brutal birthday.
“My business,” Tristan said, “was eating pie.”
He glanced at the plate.
“You interrupted it.”
The man's friends laughed again.
But the laughter was weaker.
Something about Tristan was beginning to register.
Not his identity.
His composure.
Most people became smaller when confronted.
Tristan seemed to become quieter.
The first man leaned down.
“You think you're tough?”
“No.”
Tristan met his eyes.
“I think I'm tired.”
The answer confused him.
Clare used the moment.
“Guys, seriously. Just leave.”
The boy climbed from the booth.
“Mom?”
Clare’s attention snapped toward him.
“Evan, stay there.”
The third man turned.
“Kid wants his mommy.”
He started toward the booth.
Clare moved.
So did Tristan.
Tristan stood.
That was all.
But the room changed.
He was taller than the three men had realized.
His wet coat opened slightly, revealing the powerful frame beneath it.
The nearest young man stopped.
Tristan stepped between him and Evan.
“No.”
One word.
The man scoffed.
“No what?”
“You don't go near the kid.”
Clare stared at Tristan.
The young man pushed Tristan's shoulder.
It was a mistake.
Tristan looked down at the hand.
Then back at him.
There were a thousand things Tristan Carmine knew how to do next.
Most would have ended badly.
He chose the simplest.
He removed the hand from his shoulder.
Firmly.
Nothing more.
“You've been drinking,” Tristan said. “You're embarrassed because she told you no. Walk outside, get some air, and tomorrow this becomes a story you barely remember.”
The young man stared at him.
“You threatening me?”
“I'm giving you an exit.”
Something in Tristan’s eyes finally penetrated the alcohol.
The young man hesitated.
His friends were no longer laughing.
Then headlights swept across the diner windows.
A dark sedan had pulled up outside.
Tristan recognized it immediately.
His jaw tightened.
Apparently, his men had ignored his instructions.
The rear door opened.
A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit stepped onto the sidewalk.
Marco Bellini.
Tristan’s oldest lieutenant.
Marco looked through the window.
Saw Tristan.
Saw the three men.
And immediately entered.
The bell jingled.
“Boss.”
Silence.
Clare looked at Marco.
Then Tristan.
“Boss?” she repeated.
Tristan closed his eyes briefly.
So much for anonymity.
Marco studied the three men.
“You gentlemen bothering Mr. Carmine?”
The color drained from one man’s face.
“Carmine?”
The loudest one stared at Tristan.
Recognition arrived like an electrical current.
“No way.”
Tristan sighed.
“I was having a quiet birthday.”
Marco looked at the pie.
Then at the number-four candle.
His eyebrows lifted.
Tristan gave him a look that warned him against commenting.
Marco wisely obeyed.
The three men backed toward the door.
The loudest one swallowed.
“Mr. Carmine, we didn't—”
“Leave.”
They left.
Immediately.
The diner became silent again.
Clare stood behind the counter.
Evan had come to her side.
She placed one hand protectively on his shoulder.
Marco looked around.
“You all right?”
“I was.”
“Your phone was off.”
“That was intentional.”
“Happy birthday.”
Tristan stared at him.
“Thank you, Marco.”
Marco looked at Clare.
Then at the candle.
A faint smile appeared.
“I’ll wait outside.”
“You do that.”
Marco left.
Tristan turned toward Clare.
The warmth that had existed between them minutes earlier was gone.
She stared at him differently now.
Not fear exactly.
But caution.
“You’re Tristan Carmine.”
“Yes.”
“That Tristan Carmine?”
“There are probably several.”
“Not in Chicago.”
Evan looked up.
“Mom, who's he?”
Clare kept her eyes on Tristan.
“Nobody you need to worry about.”
The sentence hurt more than Tristan expected.
He reached for his coat.
“I should go.”
Clare said nothing.
Tristan took several bills from his wallet and placed them on the counter.
Clare looked down.
“No.”
He paused.
“The pie was three seventy-five.”
“Keep it.”
“That’s several hundred dollars.”
“I noticed.”
“I don't want it.”
“Consider it compensation for the disturbance.”
“You didn't cause it.”
“I attracted Marco.”
“You didn't cause those guys to come in.”
Tristan studied her.
Most people accepted money from him before he finished offering.
Clare pushed the bills back.
“Three seventy-five.”
“You gave me coffee.”
“Four fifty.”
“The candle?”
“Free.”
“Why?”
Clare folded her arms.
“Because birthdays shouldn't cost extra.”
Tristan looked at her.
Something inside him shifted again.
He removed a five-dollar bill.
Clare took it.
“Keep the change.”
“Big spender.”
For the first time since learning his name, she smiled.
Barely.
Tristan turned toward the door.
“Good night, Clare.”
“Good night, Tristan.”
He stepped into the rain.
Marco opened the sedan door.
Tristan stopped.
Through the diner window, he could see Clare kneeling beside Evan.
The boy wrapped his arms around her neck.
She closed her eyes and held him tightly.
Tristan watched longer than he should have.
Marco noticed.
“Who is she?”
“Nobody.”
Marco followed his gaze.
“Sure.”
Tristan got into the car.
But as they pulled away, something bothered him.
Not Clare’s reaction.
Not the three men.
Something else.
He had seen the stack of envelopes beside the register.
One had been stamped in red.
FINAL NOTICE.
Another bore the logo of an electricity provider.
A third looked like a court document.
Tristan knew desperation.
He had built an empire by recognizing it in other people.
And Clare was drowning.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Find out who owns Penny’s Diner.”
Marco looked at him in the mirror.
“Why?”
“Just find out.”
The following afternoon, Marco placed a folder on Tristan's desk.
Tristan opened it.
Penny’s Diner was six weeks behind on rent.
The owner planned to close it.
Clare Bennett was not the owner.
She was an employee.
Single mother.
Thirty-two.
One son.
Evan Bennett, age seven.
Tristan kept reading.
Then he reached the final page.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“Public records.”
Tristan read the name again.
Clare's former husband.
Daniel Bennett.
Deceased.
Tristan knew that name.
He knew it very well.
Because Daniel Bennett had once worked for the Carmine family.
And according to the report in front of Tristan, Daniel had died three years earlier in an incident connected to one of Tristan’s own businesses.
For several seconds, Tristan did not move.
Then Marco said quietly, “She doesn't know, does she?”
Tristan looked toward the rain-covered Chicago skyline.
“No.”
His birthday had brought him to Penny’s Diner by accident.
But now Tristan understood something terrible.
Meeting Clare Bennett might not have been an accident at all.
May you like
And if she ever discovered what connected him to her dead husband, that tiny birthday candle would become the least important thing she remembered about the night they met.
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