Finn was more slippery than grease on a hot skillet. He preferred to tackle problems in a roundabout way, which usually involved pulling his pants up while he ran away from whatever gun-toting husband was hot on his trail.

Me? I went at my problems straight on—and knife point first. Another reason Fletcher Lane had trained me to be the assassin, and not his son, even though Finn was two years older than me.

Finn held up his empty cup and let out a low whistle between his teeth. A moment later, Sophia came through the double doors that led to the back of the restaurant.

The dwarf clenched a battered silver coffeepot in her stubby fingers. The one she always kept warm for Finn.

Fletcher too, before he’d died. Once again, Sophia wore her usual Goth outfit—black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots. Today, dainty silverstone hearts hung from her black leather collar. They clanged and clashed like cymbals as she walked.

“Sophia? Pretty please?” Finn smiled and held out his empty cup.

The Goth dwarf grunted, but the corners of her lips, crimson today, twitched upward into a tiny smile.

Finnegan Lane could charm any woman he set his mind to, and he enjoyed practicing his skills on every female within a twenty-foot radius. Young, old, pretty, toothless.

Didn’t much matter to Finn. He enjoyed playing the part of the old-fashioned, charming, Southern gentleman to whatever audience was handy. Even the gruff, tough Sophia Deveraux wasn’t immune to his ladykiller smile.

Then again, he’d had thirty-two years to wear her down.

Finn batted his green eyes at Sophia while he sipped his fresh cup of coffee. Sophia gave him another minuscule smile, then moved over to the double sink, where she was draining a colander of elbow macaroni to make some salad. Normally, during the lunch hour rush, there wouldn’t be room to move or turn around back here.

Waitresses would be stacked three deep behind the counter, waiting on Sophia and me to cook up their latest order. But it was just the two of us today. I’d sent the rest of the staff home with pay, after it had become apparent I wouldn’t need them to man the Pork Pit.

“What about Owen Grayson?” Finn asked between sips of steaming coffee. “How are you going to cash in that favor?”

Grayson’s visit hadn’t made the newspaper article, but I’d mentioned it to Finn last night when I’d called to tell him about the attempted robbery at the Pork Pit. He’d been more excited about Owen Grayson owing me a favar than the fact Sophia and I had foiled the would-be robbers.