Page 5 of Unrestricted
I pause. "Do you?"
"Yes,cara, many things." His eyes bore a hole through my outer defences and his lips quirk as I shudder. "But for now I'll take a cinnamon bun."
"A cinnamon bun?"
It seems an unlikely thing for him to eat. I mean, I don't know this man at all, but I've served a lot of customers over the past few years and I would have sworn he was the granola bar type.
Buns tend to be the go-to for affectionate, kind men, the sort you want to cuddle with on the sofa after a hard day at work.
This man doesn't fit the bill. But, of course, profiling by pastry isn't an exact science.
"If it's not too much trouble,” he says.
"Of course."
I sidestep to the cabinet where all of our baked goods are on display and grab the tongs. I glance over at the stranger who's now looking at his phone.
His posture is relaxed, and he grins at something he reads on screen. I'm starting to think I made a mistake. He isn't acting like a man who was sent here to kill me.
Perhaps it's a coincidence he has the bearing of an Italian mobster. That thought is banished a moment later.
"I missed you in Sydney," he says without looking up. "And London."
The tongs slip from my hand. They clatter on the tiled floor, drawing attention from several customers. I bend to pick them up, then place them in the sink behind me.
Sydney. He got close in Sydney. I suspected someone was watching me for weeks. It seems that wasn't paranoia.
As I grab onto the edge of the countertop to steady myself, my co-worker Jodie appears at my side and rubs my arm. Like me, she's just in Edinburgh temporarily.
But where I've needed to keep moving to avoid retribution from the mafia, she's traveling the world before she starts college next year.
"Are you okay?" Jodie asks.
"Yes," I assure her. "Just a little clumsy today."
The vivacious redhead grins at me. "No wonder. That guy is gorgeous."
I snort derisively. "He's not my type."
"If you say so," Jodie teases. She fetches the cinnamon bun from the cabinet, puts it on a plate and hands it to me. I take it to my darkly handsome customer.
"I'd have thought I was exactly your type," he says as I place his plate down in front of him. "Being a Volante and all."
My entire body tenses. I was right. He is a Volante. He offers me his hand to shake, a move I wasn't expecting. "Adriano Volante," he says.
Confused, I take his hand. It's warm and his skin is a little rough. I wish I didn't like how that feels. His fingers wrap around mine, just tightly enough that I realize how easily he could hurt me. He shakes my hand and smiles placidly.
There's a hint of menace beneath the civility and I find myself wishing he was more openly hostile. Then I'd know where I stand.
"Eleanor Marconi,” I reply.
He barks out a laugh. "We both know that's not true. Shall we try again?"
My shoulders sag. "Eliza Moretti."
"That's better." He releases my hand and picks up his coffee cup. He sips the drink and tilts his head to one side appreciatively. "Perfetto. What do I owe you?"
I try to total it in my head. One espresso and one cinnamon bun. Mental arithmetic is something I'm good at but suddenly the ability to perform a simple addition eludes me.
