Chapter 19
Raven
I turned my back on the restaurant owner and sauntered toward the exit, savoring the satisfaction of our financial standoff.
Behind me, the owner stood frozen, staring at the money on the table. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. The disconnect between his extortion fantasy and reality was short-circuiting his brain.
Leo and Maya hesitated, exchanging worried glances before scurrying after me like frightened mice. Neither wanted to be the last one left facing the owner's wrath.
"Eyes forward," I murmured as they caught up. "Don't look back. It shows weakness."
Maya's breathing came in short, panicked bursts. "Is he following us?"
"Does it matter?" I kept my pace unhurried. Being chased was nothing new—I'd once walked calmly through a Moroccan marketplace with three intelligence agents on my tail and a thumb drive worth millions in my shoe.
We'd almost reached the door when the owner finally found his voice.
"Motherfucker!" he bellowed, the sound of a fist slamming on wood echoing through the restaurant. "You think you can play me? You think knowing some wholesale prices makes you smart? I said ten thousand, and that's what you'll pay!"
I didn't break stride. Neither did Leo or Maya, though I could feel the tension radiating from their bodies.
"Hey! STOP THEM!"
The sharp command triggered immediate action. Three men—kitchen staff by their aprons, though they moved more like soldiers than cooks—blocked the exit, forming a wall of hostile flesh.
Leo froze. "Oh god."
Maya grabbed my arm. "Raven, please—"
I shook her off. "Keep walking," I said, not breaking my stride.
The largest of the three stepped forward, tattoos visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. "You heard the boss. Pay up or things get ugly."
The other two flanked him, shoulders squared, faces set in expressions meant to intimidate. One had a kitchen knife tucked into his waistband—amateur move. The third kept his right hand suspiciously close to his ankle.
I smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Move," I said simply.
The leader snorted and reached for my arm. "Listen, little girl—"
I pivoted slightly, and his hand grasped empty air. The movement was so minimal, so precise, that he blinked in confusion. He tried again, lunging forward this time. I sidestepped with the ease of someone avoiding a puddle.
"What the—" He made a wild grab. I ducked under his arm, circling behind him without ever touching him.
"Are you really going to risk assault charges over your boss's bad math?" I asked, tone conversational.
The three exchanged glances. The leader's face reddened with frustration and embarrassment.
"Shut your mouth and pay!"
"You know," I said, examining the man closest to me, "that partial finger on your right hand—lost it in prison, right? And you," I nodded to the second man, "that neck tattoo you tried to laser off? MS-13, if I'm not mistaken." I turned to the third. "And that ankle monitor tucked under your pants—violation of parole to be working in a place that serves alcohol, isn't it?"
Their faces drained of color simultaneously. The leader's mouth fell open.
"How did you—"
"You're all ex-cons," I continued, "desperate for work, willing to take orders from that parasite." I jerked my chin toward the owner. "I get it. But assault on a minor? That's a felony. Add ten years to whatever you're already looking at."
I leaned in slightly, dropping my voice to a whisper only they could hear. "Besides, is it worth going back to prison where your ride-or-die homies are busy fucking your girlfriends and forgetting your names?"
The effect was immediate. All three men backed up a step, uncertainty replacing their earlier aggression.
"Shit, man," the one with the ankle monitor muttered. "She's right."
"Sorry, miss," the finger-missing cook said, actually bowing slightly. "Didn't realize you were... familiar with the life."
They parted like the Red Sea, creating a path to the exit.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" The owner screamed from behind us. "GET THEM!"
The men looked at him, then at me, then down at the floor.
"Sorry, boss," the leader said. "Not worth the heat."
Leo and Maya didn't need prompting this time. They practically sprinted through the opening, and I followed at my own pace, giving the men a small nod of acknowledgment as I passed.
Outside in the gathering dusk, Leo bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in great gulps of air. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."
Maya wasn't much better, her face ashen. "How did you know all that about them? How did you know they were ex-convicts?"
I shrugged. "Educated guess."
Years of living among killers and criminals. Hundreds of nights in holding cells across three continents. Dozens of prison informants on my payroll. But sure, let's go with "educated guess."
We'd made it half a block when I heard it—the sound of multiple footsteps, hurried and purposeful. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what my instincts already knew. The restaurant owner was following us, phone pressed to his ear, gesticulating wildly.
Leo looked back and let out a strangled yelp. "He's calling someone! Raven, he's following us!"
"Let him," I replied, scanning our surroundings. Narrow street. Poor lighting. Few pedestrians. Not ideal.
We turned a corner, and my stomach dropped. A group of men blocked the sidewalk ahead—seven of them, spread in a loose semicircle. They weren't trying to be subtle. Two carried baseball bats. One idly flipped a knife. I caught the distinctive bulge of handguns beneath at least three jackets.
These weren't restaurant employees. These were professionals.
Leo stumbled to a halt, and Maya bumped into him from behind.
"Oh God," Leo whispered. "We're dead."
The restaurant owner came huffing around the corner behind us, cutting off our retreat. His face lit up with vindictive glee when he saw the group ahead.
"Gator!" he called out, voice dripping with false camaraderie. "You came! Ten thousand, just like I said. You take eighty percent!"
The largest man in the group—presumably Gator—gave him a dismissive nod but kept his eyes fixed on us. No, not on us. On me.
Maya pressed against me, her fingers digging into my arm. "Raven, you just scared those guys away by threatening to call the police! This time it'll work too, right? Right?!"
I felt a bubble of dark amusement rise in my chest. The laugh that escaped wasn't cruel, just... experienced. "What are you talking about? These aren't just ex-cons working kitchen jobs. These are professional criminals. Black market enforcers. They don't fear jail time." I shook my head. "This is their career path. They only care about profit and their gang affiliations."
Leo went pale, his legs visibly wobbling. "God, I should just go back for more money—"
"Relax," I said, a strange calm settling over me. It was familiar, this feeling—the clarity that comes with danger. I'd missed it. "The bigger the gangster, the better the manners."
"The WHAT?" Maya and Leo blurted in unison, staring at me like I'd lost my mind.