The name made the air in the lobby feel heavy and still.

Everyone in the city knew the Russo name, whispered in dark corners and feared in high-rise boardrooms.

“I have nothing for you, Mr. Russo,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Not yet,” Dante said, stepping aside to let me pass. “But we will speak again soon.”

I hurried past him, the smell of his expensive cedarwood cologne and rain lingering in my senses.

I walked three blocks through the downpour to my small cafe, the Daily Grind.

The warmth of the shop usually comforted me, the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon bringing a sense of peace.

I locked the front door behind me and turned over the ‘Closed’ sign.

I needed to clear my head and count the register before the evening got too dark.

The brass bell above the door chimed suddenly, cutting through the quiet hum of the espresso machine.

I looked up, startled.

Three men in heavy, dark raincoats stepped inside, letting the wet wind howl through the open doorway.

Water dripped from their hems onto my clean wooden floor.

None of them looked like customers.

“We are closed,” I said, moving instinctively behind the counter.

The man in the center had a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collar.

“We aren’t here for coffee, Mrs. Chen,” he said, his voice grating.

“It’s Rivers now,” I corrected, my hand reaching slowly for the landline phone under the counter.

The second man noticed the movement and pulled a matte black pistol from his pocket, aiming it directly at my chest.

“Step away from the counter,” he ordered.

My heart hammered against my ribs, and my hand dropped to my side.

“What do you want?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.