Chapter two smoke and sliver
538 Words
The next morning, London wore its usual disguise: polite drizzle, impatient traffic, and a sky the color of wet concrete.
Leila sipped a too hot Americano at the café counter, replaying the night in her mind.
The name Romano clung like smoke.
She’d tried searching it quickly, casually before her shift began. The results were a mess of headlines:
Police probe Romano family links to Docklands fire.
Underworld heir still missing after East End turf war.
Nothing she could pin to the man with storm-grey eyes.
“You look like you fought the rain and lost,” her co-worker Priya teased, sliding a tray of croissants into the display.
“Just…didn’t sleep well,” Leila said. She didn’t mention the alley or the bruised stranger. She’d almost convinced herself it was a dream until the faint scent of iron lingered on her jacket.
The bell over the door chimed.
Leila glanced up and there he was.
Nico.
Different clothes this time: dark charcoal suit, hair brushed into effortless order. The cut on his cheek was a thin scar now, like a secret he carried for sport.
Her breath caught. He moved with quiet confidence, eyes finding hers as though the crowded café were empty.
“Americano,” he told Priya, his voice the same low thunder. Then, to Leila, “We need to talk.”
Her heart skittered. “About what? Street brawls and disappearing acts?”
A ghost of a smile. “About why you were in that alley. And why you called the police.”
“I didn’t…” she started, then stopped.
Of course he knew she hadn’t dialed.
He leaned on the counter, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and smoke. “Meet me after your shift. The Embankment. Seven.”
“That’s not”
“You can say no,” he interrupted softly. “But you won’t.”
Before she could find words, he dropped a ten pound note on the counter and left, a gust of cold air following him into the grey London morning.
The day dragged.
By six-thirty, Leila told herself she’d only go to prove she wasn’t afraid.
But as dusk bled into the Thames and the city lights flickered on, she knew that wasn’t the truth.
The Embankment glowed under antique streetlamps.
Nico waited near the river’s edge, coat collar turned up against the wind.
Behind him, the water churned black and silver.
“You came,” he said, no question in his voice.
Leila folded her arms. “For five minutes.”
“Fair enough.” He studied her, the lamplight catching the scar on his cheek. “You heard my name last night. That’s dangerous.”
“Romano,” she said carefully.
He nodded once. “My family owns half of what you read in the crime section. I walked away. They don’t forgive deserters.”
The words hung between them, heavy as the river’s current.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, eyes never leaving hers, “I make sure they don’t use you to get to me.”
A gust of wind whipped the water. Somewhere across the river, sirens wailed again closer this time.
- Writer
