Entangled with the Mafia Don novel Chapter 24

24 /37

Davina's POV:

The small restaurant was tucked away on a less-trafficked side street in the old town, a haven of faded blue and white paint, its windows clouded with the steam of simmering stews. I’d deliberately chosen a table in the back corner, shrouded in shadow, hoping the dinnertime rush of locals and the general bustle would swallow me whole. The baseball cap, a cheap, navy blue thing Nathan had grabbed, was pulled low, casting my face in shadow, and I kept my gaze resolutely fixed on the worn, laminated menu, pretending to decipher the handwritten specials. But beneath the carefully constructed facade of a quiet, unassuming tourist, my nerves were a tangled mess of frayed wires, each twitching with the constant, gnawing fear.

Ezra’s text. The words, so casually cruel, so chillingly certain, replayed in my mind like a broken record needle skipping on the same groove. “Thought you could run, little ghost? I see you. Don't make me come find you.” The sheer audacity of it, the implication that he had eyes everywhere, had sent a fresh, icy wave of panic crashing over the fragile shell of my composure. How? How in God’s name had he found me so quickly? The burner phone, a cheap, disposable thing; the rented car, the anonymous motel on the outskirts of town – I’d thought, in my desperate naiveté, that I’d been careful, that I’d vanished. But he was like a phantom limb, a shadow clinging to my every move, always one step behind, always watching from the periphery.

Every time the heavy wooden door creaked open, its brass bell jingling a cheerful counterpoint to my inner turmoil, my heart leaped into my throat, a frantic bird trapped in my chest. Every unfamiliar face that crossed the threshold – a sun-weathered fisherman, a group of boisterous tourists, a lone man in a crisp linen shirt – sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I sipped my water slowly, the condensation beading on the thick glass, my eyes darting nervously around the small, crowded restaurant, trying to appear absorbed in the menu while simultaneously scanning for any telltale sign of him, of them. The dark suits would be a dead giveaway in this casual setting. The cold, assessing gazes.

Then, the bell above the door jingled again, its cheerful peal this time sounding like a death knell. Two men entered. They were dressed identically in impeccably tailored, jet-black suits that seemed to absorb the very light of the taverna, their movements precise and coordinated. Their faces were impassive masks, devoid of any warmth, their eyes – hidden behind expensive sunglasses even indoors – scanning the room with a cold, professional efficiency that sent a visceral shiver crawling down my spine. Bodyguards. My stomach twisted into a tight knot of dread. And then, framed in the doorway behind them, unmistakable even in the dimly lit, bustling space, was Ezra.

He moved with a quiet, almost languid confidence, his gaze sweeping across the tables, a predator surveying its unsuspecting prey. His dark eyes, even from this distance, seemed to possess an unnerving intensity, a laser focus that made me feel instantly exposed, pinned under his gaze like a butterfly on a board. A slow, predatory smile, devoid of any genuine warmth, touched his lips, a silent acknowledgment, a chilling promise of what was to come. He knew I was here. He had found me. The game was over.

Instinct, raw and primal, took over. My first thought was to disappear, to somehow melt into the shadows, to become invisible against the backdrop of the restaurant's’s lively chaos. I fumbled for the oversized, grease-stained menu, pulling it up in front of my face like a flimsy, paper shield, my hands trembling so violently the laminated cardboard rattled against my teeth. Maybe, just maybe, if I kept my head down, if I didn’t move…