Page 12 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

Clutching my mug like it contains answers (it doesn’t), I shuffle toward the spare room Horace so graciously offered.

I’m grateful. Really.

But gratitude tastes a lot like defeat right now.

I shut the door behind me, lean against it, and let out a breath that sounds like a dying accordion.

Worst. Friday. Ever.

And considering my last exciting Friday night involved silver handcuffs and a very enthusiastic banshee who thought a safe word was optional, that’s really saying something.

Chapter 4

Dina

The bell over the door jingles as I push into Pizza Girls, and I’m immediately hit with the familiar scent of baked dough, garlic, and melted cheese.

Ah, my happy place.

I tug my hoodie off, slinging it over my arm as I catch MJ hustling out the door like she’s late for a hot date.

Which, knowing MJ, she probably is.

She winks as she passes. “You’re up, sis. Don’t burn the place down.”

“Have fun charming the pants off Mr. Tinder,” I call after her, earning a cheeky laugh as the door swings shut behind her.

I sigh, cracking my knuckles as I head behind the counter, ready to jump into my shift. Friday night rush, here we come.

Except, it’s weirdly quiet.

Like, too quiet.

Where's the usual hum of conversation and clatter of plates?

I glance around and spot Carina near the register, nervously twisting the ties of her apron into some sort of macramé nightmare.

Uh-oh. That’s never a good sign.

My sister only does that when something, or someone, is stressing her out.

I grab an apron and make my way over.

“Okay. What’s with the worried face? Did someone send back the smoked clam and roasted pepper pizza again? Because if so, I vote we ban them for life.”

Carina’s eyes dart toward the back corner of the restaurant.

“No. Worse. Look,” she whispers, jerking her chin subtly like we’re in some kind of pizza-based spy movie.

I follow her gaze and spot a table tucked away in the shadows.

Oh boy.

Horace, Carina’s main squeeze, is sitting at a table with Uncle Uzzi, and some unfortunate slob with a bandage on his head, like he’d been recently brained, and a dozen or more welts in various stages of healing on his otherwise handsome face.

I know I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him. Not yet.

“Hey, who is that?” I whisper. Curiosity making me anxious.

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