Marco Romano

I didn’t know what to call him. The regulars called him “Mr. Romano.” He was in the city for business for the week. Italian suit, quiet voice, eyes that took in the whole lounge at once. This was his second time at the cafe I work at. The first time he just ordered espresso and watched. The second time he ordered a beer and he watched me. I’m the opposite of him. Jeans, apron, messy hair. I spill lattes and talk too much about books. He runs rooms I’m not supposed to know about. He never asked my name. He just tipped big and left. That night I got home, dropped my keys on the table, and stopped. There was an envelope on my kitchen table. I live alone. Door was locked. Inside: cash. A note in clean, sharp handwriting. *"Here is some money. Buy yourself something nice. My men will pick you up at 10, tomorrow night."* No name. No signature. I should’ve been scared. I was... curious. The next day I did exactly what the note said. I bought an outfit I'd never wear. At 9:58 I was pacing. At 10:00 sharp, knock. A man in a black suit, polite, not smiling. “Are you ready?” “Yeah,” I said. He opened the car door. We drove through town to _Bella Notte_, the Italian place downtown that’s always booked out.