Page 8 of Wicked Rivals

I hated carrying it.

I hated more that I might not be safe without it.

“Marcy, I have to pick up the kid,” I called out. “Can you handle the line?”

I threw my purse over one shoulder and grabbed a small bag of freshly baked cookies for Enzo on my way to the door.

“No problem, Val,” my very bubbly employee said.

She took my place at the register, helping the next customer with a sweet smile and her cheerfully casual demeanor that screamed middle-class suburban family from the Midwest.

Her constant cheeriness was literally a godsend for my café when we had to deal with arrogant customers. She handled them with much more patience than I could. Beyond that, her sunny disposition seemed a little over-the-top to me.

None of my employees ever stayed long, though. Most were students who could work for me only as long as it took them to earn their degrees. Once they graduated and moved on, I got the next fresh crop of college kids to break in all over again.

I must have promised myself a dozen times that when the next hiring cycle came around, I would only bring on college students from New York. Maybe Boston or Chicago if they were less sunny and more sarcastic like me.

On my way out, with a second thought, I turned back to grab my travel mug and fill it with the fresh fall blend I’d made, a blonde roast brewed with cloves and cinnamon in the basket.

The flavor trick came to me from my adoptednonna, the woman who had left me her café, Con Amore, when she passed. No one else knew herspecial recipes.

I topped my coffee with some pumpkin spice foam, and then finally pushed out the front door.

As I hit the sidewalk, I completed my daily ritual… one more check inside my purse before leaving the café to get Enzo. And like the day before, my pistol was still there, unregistered, serial numbers filed off, fully loaded, with the safety engaged.

During the last few months, the gun had become more than a precaution.

It had become a necessity… my last line of defense.

I hadn’t been able to prove it, but the signs were there. Someone was watching me, following me, so I carried the pistol.

With everything in order, I headed off into the beautiful fall afternoon.

Brooklyn’s tree-lined streets were bursting with the vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds of a New England autumn. As I made my way to Enzo’s school, I noticed even the air smelled sweeter, scented with crisp earth and a hint of apple.

Most nine-year-old kids in Brooklyn walked themselves home from school. Many of them didn’t have a choice. And though we only lived a few blocks away from the school, I made it my priority to schedule my day around being there for my son.

We had talked about him being old enough to walk home on his own or even with a group of friends if he wanted that.

But then I pushed out the date by several months, around the same time I started carrying a loaded firearm in my purse.

At the end of my ten-minute walk to Saint Christopher Catholic Academy, I spotted Enzo right away. Even if he hadn’t been almost a head taller than the other boys, his dark golden curls and his olive complexion made him stand out.

His usual stern expression didn’t help him blend in either.

As he pumped his legs to swing higher in a competition with two of his classmates, that stern, unwavering concentration never left his face.

My heart, though, seized up every time he pushed himself farther toward the sky—farther away from me—but I did my best to hide it.

Sometimes I worried I would never really understand what went on in his head behind that calm, stoic expression. My boy could be completely unreadable at times, hiding his thoughts and emotions with a meticulousness I found a little eerie for a nine-year-old.

It didn’t help knowing where that part of him came from.

I hoped to keep Enzo safe from the details about his father for as long as I could.

A familiar and unwelcome male voice split my focus from Enzo’s swinging competition.

“Ms. Salera, hi. I’m glad I caught you. I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk.”

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