The Man In Black

Then another voice cut across the room.

“Excuse me.”

It came from the private table in the back. Vincent DeLuca stood there in a dark coat, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side. The room changed around him. Chairs stopped scraping. Even the bartender looked up.

He walked to her without hurrying.

Emily said, “You don’t have to—”

He took the tray from her hands before she could finish. His fingers were warm. He looked at the empty plates, then at Tyler.

“Leave,” Vincent said.

Tyler gave a short laugh. “And if I don’t?”

Vincent didn’t raise his voice. “Then you’ll be escorted out.”

Tyler stood, still smirking. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Vincent looked at him like he was deciding how much work he wanted to do. Then he took a billfold from his coat, peeled out several hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them on the table.

“That covers the meals,” he said. “And your manners are still owed.”

Tyler’s face went hard.

Vincent turned back to Emily, just for a second. “Come outside.”

The kiss happened before she could ask why. It was brief, quiet, nothing for the room to cheer over. His hand touched her cheek, steadying, not claiming. Then he stepped back.

Emily’s mouth stayed open for half a second too long.