He leaned against the wall and flipped through his device while she weighed, inspected, and counted the coins. Every couple of minutes, she snuck a peek. She wondered what was going on behind those dark, intense eyes. That chiseled jaw. His strong, broad shoulders and languid, easy posture. She shook her head; if anyone ever needed proof that life was unfair, there he stood.

“... and forty," she said with one final metallic clink. "Alright, you're all set." She forced herself to keep her eyes on his face as he strode toward the counter.

"Glad you are satisfied," he said, drawing out the last word with a grin.

"I... you're..." she stammered. Gods, get it together. She took a deep breath. "You understand why we required payment up front. We didn't doubt you were good for it. We just—"

"I am good for a lot of things," he purred. His voice was smooth and low with a faint European accent she couldn't place.

"Really? Do you ever turn that off?"

"Is it working?"

"I mean, maybe."

"Then why on earth would I turn it off?" He winked.

She took another breath and began stacking the coins in a lockbox. "Krugerrands?" she said, hefting one in her hand. Gold never failed to surprise her by its unexpected weight.

He shrugged. "It is what I had on hand. But how do I know it is safe with you?" He looked around the empty, decrepit space. "Your operation is unexpectedly casual."

She placed the last of the coins in the box and secured it. "Oh, we're being watched. And protected." She glanced first at one corner, then another, where half-charred ceiling tiles concealed the dull glint of black metal barrels. "Nobody would make it out with your coins."

"Ah, good to know. So, my dear Bianca, when can I expect delivery?"

"It'll be pickup, actually. Two days, three tops. We'll meet with the seller tomorrow. Then it's a matter of when we can arrange safe exchange."

"So, you will reach out to me?"

"We will, yes."

"Hmm. I look forward to it."

She watched him leave. He looked both ways, then crossed Chestnut toward Independence Square. She locked the empty storefront behind him.

Behind her, a deep voice murmured, "Is he gone?"

She whirled around. "Frank?"

"Hush!" Frank peeked around the corner. "But is he?"

"Jesus, Frank! You scared me half to death. Yes, he's gone."

Frank smoothed his skirt and leaned against the counter, looking a little too relieved.

"Wait," Bianca said, "you know him?"

"Ha. You could say that." Frank side-eyed her and waggled his eyebrows.

Bianca's jaw dropped.

"What?" Frank said with an innocent shrug. "He gets around."

"Um, so do you, apparently. Seriously, though, I wouldn't have guessed he was your type. Or that you were his, honestly."

"It wasn't just the two of us. And Elio Rivera is everybody's type."

"Truth," she said. "Wait, Rivera? Not that Rivera?"

Frank looked at her flatly. "Did you really not know?"

She shrugged. "I just do as I'm told. And besides, gold is gold."

"Okay, Shakespeare."

"Wow. He practically owns Philadelphia. Explains the self-confidence, I guess. Well, and..." She gestured toward the lockbox.

"Technically," Frank said, walking around the corner to peek through the taped-up windows, "his family owns it."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"We should have charged more. A whole lot more."

Frank sighed. "Bianca, darling, Elio could have gotten the goods for half, and he knows it."

Elio walked several blocks south and stopped in front of a nondescript building with the word Triumph scrawled in lime green paint over the graffiti. He stood for a few minutes staring at it from across the street, then went around to the back of the building, where he disappeared through the service entrance. Inside, he let his eyes adjust to the dim light and listened to the racket of clanging pots and dinner orders being expertly expedited. He made his way down a long hall until he came to the source of the noise and entered the kitchen.

It was a chaotic scene: chefs and cooks darted around one another, the expeditor shouting orders and hurrying to get dishes out. Elio watched them with amusement, leaning against a stainless steel prep table, arms crossed over his chest.

An older man with a weathered face and tattooed forearms saw him and immediately hurried over.

"Hey, Elio. What brings you here?" he asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

"I followed my stomach. How is everything this evening?"

"So-so. Hungry?"

Elio nodded. "Do me a favor and send out something spicy. When you have time. Surprise me."

Gio clapped him on the back. "You got it, boss."

Elio smiled and made his way to one of the empty tables in the back of the restaurant. He sat down and let his thoughts wander. The adrenaline from the earlier exchange was still pumping through his veins.

Within minutes, Gio appeared bearing a glass of whiskey and a plate of something fried and delicious-looking. Elio nodded in appreciation, took a sip of the whiskey, and let the calming warmth spread through his body. He picked up a piece of food with his fingers and bit into the pepper-crusted calamari. Delightful. He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. As he savored the sounds and smells of the busy kitchen, a soft voice behind him said, "Excuse me, Mr. Rivera? Sir?"

Elio turned to see a young woman clutching an old-fashioned notepad and pencil. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Rivera, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? I'm a writer? I'm doing a profile? On Triumph?"

Elio smiled and motioned for her to take a seat.

"Of course, it would be my pleasure. But you must promise never to call me Mr. Rivera, only Elio. What do you want to know?"

The flustered woman opened her notepad. "Well, first of all," she said, her face turning a deep shade of crimson. "I'm curious about, um, about the history of the restaurant. How did it get started?"

Elio took a sip of his whiskey and leaned forward, his dark eyes sparkling. "It's a bit of a wild story which started with a man named Dante. He was a trained chef. Had a bit of a temper. He couldn't hold down a job for long, was always getting into arguments and fistfights. Eventually, he found himself at a dead end, with no prospects."

She leaned in, captivated by Elio's secretive tones and animated storytelling. "So what did he do?"

"He did what any good chef would do," Elio continued. "He cooked. He found an abandoned building. He fixed it up, opened the doors. No permits. Nothing. It was a struggle. Then, fine after fine. Closures, and so on. But Dante was determined. He poured everything he had into the restaurant. Eventually, people were coming from all over. It was his Triumph, the triumph of his life, and of his passion."

The young reporter was completely hypnotized by Elio’s storytelling. By his voice. By the way his eyelashes softly kissed his skin whenever he blinked. What she wouldn’t give to be an eyelash on his face.

"Beautiful. Beautiful,” she said.

“Mmm,” Elio replied, smiling with the slightest upturned lip.

With a start, she snapped out of her dream state and cleared her throat. “And that was before Flu X?"

Elio nodded.

"So, what happened to Dante?" She scanned her notes. "Nobody mentioned him. Is he still here?"

Elio smiled enigmatically. "That, my dear, is a story for another day."

"I love a good mystery," she teased. When he didn't take the bait, she said, "Fair enough. So, what's your connection to Triumph?"

Elio leaned back in his chair and took another sip of whiskey. "Dante was like a second father to me." Elio shrugged. "I have been coming here since I was still a boy. I consider the staff to be like family."

She nodded. "And what about your family?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Are—are they involved?" she stammered. "Is it, I mean, are you—"

"If you don't mind," Elio said, "I would like to finish my dinner now."

She blushed and nodded, hastily standing and grabbing her bag. "Yes, of course! Sorry for taking up your time. It was nice to meet you. You're very—"

She cut her sentence short and offered him a quick smile before hurrying away.

Elio watched her go with an amused expression. As she left, a couple entered the dining room. The staff welcomed them warmly, and Elio watched from a distance as several patrons turned to stare at the newcomers. There was something about the couple that drew attention. The woman was strikingly beautiful, with long dark hair streaked with silver and an authoritative demeanor. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with piercing eyes that scanned the room with confidence.

Elio spoke with the server and gestured toward the couple's table, then stood and approached them with a polite smile and introduced himself.

"Good evening. Welcome to Triumph. Is this your first time visiting us?" Elio inquired with a grin.

The woman stood and embraced him, then kissed him on both cheeks. "You smell like booze," she said. Then she hugged him again.

"You are early? Please," the man said, gesturing to an empty chair, "sit. How was your day?"

Elio squeezed the man's shoulders. "Actually, it was good. Today was a very good day."

The man looked at him expectantly, but Elio gave nothing away.

"Glad to hear it. If you have a few minutes after dinner, let us talk. I have a proposition for you, son."