The espresso machine screamed like it was dying. I slammed my palm against its side, and it settled into its usual angry hiss. Tuesday morning at Morrison & Associates meant the same parade of thousand-dollar suits grabbing their fuel before they went off to ruin someone else's life.
Medium cappuccino, extra foam, for the guy who never looks up from his phone. Black coffee, two sugars, for the woman with the Hermès bag who acts like I'm invisible. Large oat milk latte for the kid who still believes he can change the world from the inside.
Three years of this. Three years of serving coffee to the people who destroyed everything I ever cared about, and not one of them had a clue who I was.
The smell of burnt coffee mixed with expensive cologne and the faint metallic scent of money. Or maybe that was just my imagination.
"Emma, table six wants another round," Marcus called from behind the register. He was the only person in this glass tower who bothered to learn the coffee girl's name.
I grabbed the pot, its handle warm against my palm, and headed toward the corner booth. Vincent Morrison sat across from his son Daniel, and even from here I could feel the tension crackling between them like a live wire.
Vincent looked exactly like what he was—a predator in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. His silver hair was slicked back so perfectly it could cut glass, and his pale gray eyes missed nothing. He had this way of holding himself that said he owned everything he looked at.
Including me, though he didn't know it yet.
Daniel was running his fingers through his hair again, leaving it messy despite whatever product he'd used to style it this morning. His tie hung loose around his neck, and there was a coffee stain on his shirt cuff that he probably hadn't noticed. Everything about him screamed that he'd rather be anywhere else.
I'd been watching him for months. Learning his habits. His tells. The way he tapped his index finger against his thigh when he was thinking, or how he always left exact change plus twenty percent on the counter.
"You can't keep protecting every idealistic kid who thinks they know better than we do," Vincent was saying as I got close enough to eavesdrop. His voice had that particular sound rich men get when they're explaining why poor people don't matter.
"Tom wasn't being idealistic, Dad. He was doing his job." Daniel's voice was tight, like he was holding back words that would start a war. "You know, reporting financial irregularities? That thing accountants are supposed to do?"
I slowed down, pretending the businessman at table five needed his cup topped off. He was buried in his phone and didn't notice when I poured coffee he didn't want.
Vincent leaned forward, his voice dropping to what I'd come to think of as his kill shot tone. "Daniel, sometimes keeping the ship afloat means throwing some dead weight overboard. Tom made his choice when he decided to play whistleblower."
My hand tightened on the coffee pot handle.
"We'll handle this the same way we handled that Chen situation," Vincent continued, adjusting his platinum cufflinks like they were weapons. "Clean. Permanent. No loose ends."
Richard Chen.
My father.
The coffee pot slipped from my fingers like it had suddenly caught fire.
The crash echoed through the café like a bomb going off. Ceramic exploded across the marble floor, and scalding coffee went everywhere—splashing up my legs, soaking into my sneakers, spreading in a brown river toward the Morrison table.
Every conversation died. Every head turned my way.
Including Daniel's.
"Jesus, I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out as I dropped to my knees, grabbing napkins from every table within reach. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold them. The coffee was still hot enough to burn, but I couldn't feel anything except the roaring in my ears.
Richard Chen. He'd said my father's name like it was nothing. Like Dad was just another problem that had been solved.
"Hey, take it easy." A warm hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up and found Daniel Morrison crouching beside me, his brown eyes soft with concern. "It's just a coffee pot."
He was so close I could see the small scar cutting through his left eyebrow, could smell his cologne—something clean that didn't try too hard, nothing like his father's aggressive designer scent. There were worry lines around his eyes that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.
"Let me help," he said, already reaching for more napkins. "This marble's slippery when it's wet. Don't want you to hurt yourself."
If he only knew how much I was already hurting.
"I can handle it," I managed, though my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "This is my mess."
"Emma, right?" His smile was crooked, uncertain. "You always remember that I like extra foam."
He knew my name. After months of serving him coffee twice a week, Daniel Morrison actually knew my name.
Vincent materialized beside his son like a storm cloud, his gray eyes cold enough to freeze blood. "Daniel. Conference room. Now."
"Give me a minute, Dad." Daniel didn't even look up, just kept soaking up coffee like it was the most important thing in the world. Our hands brushed as we worked, and I felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the spilled coffee.
This was Vincent Morrison's son. The enemy's heir. The son of the man who killed my father.
But when Daniel looked at me like I actually mattered, it was hard to remember that.
"I should pay for this," Daniel said, standing up and offering me his hand. "And maybe... would you want to grab dinner sometime? When you're not wearing the café's entire inventory?"
Vincent's jaw could have been carved from ice. "Daniel. We have investors waiting."
"Two minutes." Daniel's voice carried an edge I'd never heard before, sharp enough to cut. He turned back to me, his voice dropping. "I'm serious about dinner. When are you free?"
This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for, planning for, dreaming about during three years of sleepless nights. Vincent Morrison's son was handing me exactly what I needed, wrapped up in genuine kindness and a crooked smile.
"I get off at six," I heard myself say.
"Perfect. There's this place called Russo's, couple blocks from here. Nothing fancy, just good food." His smile got wider, like he couldn't quite believe I'd said yes. "Seven o'clock work for you?"
"Daniel." Vincent's voice could have stopped traffic.
"I'll be there," I said quickly.
Daniel nodded and followed his father toward the elevators. I watched them go, noting how Vincent's hand clamped down on his son's shoulder hard enough to leave bruises. Even from across the room, I could see Vincent's mouth moving, his words sharp and angry.
Marcus appeared with a mop bucket, shaking his head. "You okay? You look like someone just told you the world was ending."
"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine. But for the first time in three years, I had a real shot at getting close to the Morrison family. Close enough to find the evidence I needed to prove that Vincent Morrison was a murderer.
"That was Daniel Morrison who helped you clean up," Marcus said, dumping broken ceramic into a trash bag. "Vincent's son. Decent guy, nothing like his old man. Word is he's been asking uncomfortable questions about some of the company's... creative accounting methods."
"Really?" I kept my voice casual while my brain started spinning possibilities.
"Yeah. Making Vincent real nervous, from what I hear. You didn't get that from me, though." Marcus winked and wheeled the mop bucket away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of automatic movements—grinding beans, steaming milk, making small talk with customers who saw right through me. But my mind was somewhere else entirely, racing through plans and possibilities.
Daniel Morrison had asked me out. Daniel Morrison, who was already suspicious of his father's business practices. Daniel Morrison, who could give me access to everything I needed to destroy Vincent the same way Vincent had destroyed my family.
By closing time, my hands had stopped shaking, but my heart was still racing. I took the subway back to my shoebox apartment in Queens, staring at my reflection in the dark windows as the train rocked through tunnels that smelled like metal and broken dreams.
My apartment was barely bigger than Vincent's walk-in closet, but it was mine. The walls were covered with three years of research—newspaper clippings, printed emails, photographs, financial documents, all connected with red string like something out of a paranoid thriller.
The centerpiece was a photo of my father shaking hands with Vincent at some long-ago company dinner. Both men were smiling like the best friends they used to be, back before Vincent decided friendship was less valuable than money.
I sat down at my desk—a folding table I'd bought at a garage sale—and opened the composition notebook that held three years of observations. Every page was covered with my careful handwriting, documenting Vincent's routines, his associates, his weaknesses.
The last section was dedicated to Daniel. Coffee schedule. Parking habits. The way he treated staff. His obvious discomfort with his father's methods.
Now I had a chance to get closer. Close enough to learn his secrets.
Close enough to use them.
I picked up my pen, its weight familiar in my fingers, and wrote: "Dinner with Daniel Morrison. October 15th. Russo's. 7 PM."
Then I paused, the pen hovering over paper like a sword waiting to strike.
Three years ago, Vincent Morrison stole everything from my family and murdered my father. Tonight, I was going to have dinner with his son and begin the long, careful process of returning the favor.
The pen touched paper, and I wrote four words that felt like a declaration of war:
"Let the games begin."
**End of Chapter 1**