He was scrawny. And his body odor would offend a dog. Yet with all he did not have going for him, he had the nerve to call someone ugly. As Marco Santiano would say, che coglioni…the kid was an idiot. The punk sneered as if he were staring at a slug on the bottom of his grimy sneaker. His friend stood behind him, neighing and snorting at behavior unacceptable from someone old enough to ride the train alone. In fact, out of the four people standing in front of the diner, the young men were the only ones laughing. Georgia Mae Collins was not amused by the off-colored comment directed at her friend. And she knew she would find no humor in the consequences of his words. “You need to leave her alone.” She hoped he would heed her warning and leave while he was capable of doing so on his own. No one messed with Celeste Santiano and walked away. Crawled away, maybe. Dragged away, possibly. Carried away, in a lot of cases. But never walked away. Squaring his shoulders, the punk slowly turned and faced her.
