Riding Dirty: Luciotti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) - Kara Hart Page 0,4

face.

“Sorry, Carl,” I muttered, putting my apron on. “It won't happen again.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It's Carmelo. Carl is my son. This is the third time you've been late this month. Does this job mean anything to you?” He wiped his hands on a dry towel and shook his bald head. Carl had put his whole life into this café. He came to America from the islands of Sicily thirty years ago and never looked back.

“This job means everything to me, Carmelo. You know I have a daughter,” I said, turning very serious. It was a serious accusation. I may had been stupid in the past, but my daughter was my life and this job meant my daughter could go to a good school.

“I know,” he sighed. “But no more! The customers need you here!” I looked around the empty room. The only movement around us was buzzing flies at the windows.

I looked at him as if he were delusional. “What?” He asked me, throwing his hands in the air wildly. Suddenly, the bell above the front rang and the glass door swung open violently. My stomach sank as I lifted my eyes to see the man in black. “There we go! A customer! Good morning, sir,” Carmelo said.

“Morning,” the man muttered, his deep voice sent waves of warmth between my legs. I took one look at him and wondered what he would look like between my legs, or towering over me even. I quickly dismissed the idea. What is happening to me? Clearly, I needed to get laid.

He sat down at a table and sighed, now smelling of gasoline and engine grease. I walked over and set a lone menu down for him to look at. “You couldn't stay away, huh?” I asked.

“Got hungry,” he said. A small smirk pushed his cheeks up. “Anyway. I don't need a menu. I know what I want. Two eggs, sourdough toast, extra bacon cooked extra bone-dry crispy, and a steak on the side. Oh, and coffee. Black. That's it.”

“Hungry man,” I said, writing his order down. “Okay I'll have it out in 15.” He nodded.

As I walked away he said, “Work accident.”

I turned around, confused by his words. “Excuse me?”

He raised his eyes and looked at me. He looked tired and worn out, as if he had a really tough week. “My hands. You asked me what the blood was from. It was a work accident.”

“What kind of work do you do? You a boxer or something?” I taped his order above the kitchen opening and walked back to the table.

“Ha, no. I don't box. I've fought enough people in my life to be one though.” He looked down at my legs. The spandex from my yoga pants molded around my flesh. I blushed, feeling a prickling sensation rush through my body. He was strong. He had this raw, unadulterated power to him. It was rare. Still, his presence was more of a nuisance than anything else.

“Eyes up here, bud,” I said, getting annoyed by his wandering gaze.

“I work up in Detroit. In the factories. Lots of things can go wrong. Unfortunately, a screw got loose in the mechanics and a whole row of shipping containers fell on top of one of the workers,” He said. He was nonchalant, as if this happened every day.

“Oh my God. Is he okay?” I asked, suddenly feeling concern for a stranger. Why the hell did I care? Two minutes ago, this guy was such a prick. Now I was opening up to him? Well, it was a lonely town and I could use some conversation.

“No. He died. I tried everything I could to get that damn container off him. Mangled my hand trying to save his life,” he said, taking off his jacket. His shirt was smeared with oil and grease from his car.

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. Lucky for me, his order came up. I awkwardly went behind the bar to grab it and set it on the table for him.

“Well, enjoy your food. Sounds like you deserve it. And I'm sorry for earlier. Even though you were kind of being a dick, I shouldn't have caused such a scene,” I said. “Hope your day is a little better for ya.”

“It's okay, I get it.” He ate his food like a wild animal, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks and his life depended on it.

When he was finished he left a hundred-dollar bill and