Page 13 of Shadow Of Sin

Whatever. We basically tied.

I furrow my brow.

You were down by six.

Fuck off, Wolfe.

I put down the phone and start to work. By five o’clock, the smell of antiseptic cleaner has pretty much eaten through my nasal lining and my stomach grumbles. I need to eat something that isn’t Honey Nut Cheerios. The box I brought from home is already half empty and I’ve been here less than twelve hours.

I head to Rosario’s because it’s close, and because I want to see the place from the inside.

Those are the reasons I’m going with. Not the one that makes my heart rate kick up in a way I haven’t experienced. Ever.

A chime above the door jingles when I step inside. The restaurant is small with maybe fifteen tables and a bar that seats eight. The scent of garlic, bread, and tomatoes hits me the second I walk through the door. I don’t usually notice food smells, but this one is hard to ignore. It’s strong and makes my mouth water.

Sal’s behind the bar. He spots me right away and does the thing I’ve been watching on camera for days. He looks right at me and smiles, the exact way he welcomes all of his customers.

It’s jarring. Most people don’t do that. Most people size you up before they let you in.

“Hey! Grab a seat anywhere,” he says. “Bar’s got the best view, though.”

I sit at the bar. “What do you have that isn’t alcohol?”

“Not a drinker?”

“No.”

“I’ve got Coke, Sprite, ginger ale, and water that comes out of a tap I personally guarantee is clean.” He shrugs, a sheepish grin on his face. “Mostly.”

“Ginger ale, please.”

“Solid choice.” He fills the glass and slides it across the bar. “You’re new around here.”

I nod. “Just moved in down the block.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Above the dry cleaner on Ashford.”

He winces. “Oh man. That place smells like⁠—”

“Yep. Exactly.”

He laughs, a big belly laugh. It’s genuine, too. Hard not to react to. The guy two stools down looks over and smiles even though he doesn’t know what’s funny.

“I’m Sal,” he says, reaching across the bar.

“Wolfe.”

“That’s a hell of a name.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He doesn’t push for a last name. Doesn’t push for anything, actually. He just grabs a menu and sets it down in front of me. “Chicken parm. That’s what you want. Marco, my chef, he’ll lose his mind if you don’t try it.”

He walks away and I flip open the menu. I tap my fingers against my knee whenever I’m trying to find a solution to some problem…the main problem being my hunger. I scan the pages of the items, furrowing my brow. So many choices.

Too many choices.