Café Rouge

You're a Good Man, Carlos Castellano

Epilogue

3 years later

Brent Dearden pushes his sunglasses up as he enters the small café.
Coin de paradis. Slice of heaven.
Cute.
If former gangsters could be called cute.

Had someone told him a few years ago that Carlos Castellano would be running a café with his wife in some small French town, Brent would have suggested them for a psych evaluation. Yet here he is.

He's been to France a few times, twice for business and once for pleasure. Each time, he's had the chance to visit small bakeries and cafes and one of the things he loves about them is that smell. Vanilla and delicious doughy pastry scents linger enticing a person to forget all about diet and waistband restrictions.

The place is packed inside but no one appears to be in any great hurry which, it seems, is a defining French trait. He manages to make his way over to the counter where along with that brunette is another employee working in synchronicity to handle the expresso coffee machines.

The brunette turns to the girl laughing over the steam before firing back in rapid French that's so dilated with the region's dialect, Brent has a hard time understanding it, especially over all the other noise. It's good to see the woman laughing like that. The last time he'd seen her she'd been terrified and splattered with blood. Now, she's put on a little more weight, which on her isn't a bad thing as she certainly carries it well, her hair's shorter and happiness seeps through her very pores. Yet it's still her. Those pretty features are unforgettable.

"Hello Sir, can I help you?" she asks in French and that accent paired with those big brown eyes and pretty 'girl next door' thing she has going for her, is enough to make Brent envious for just a second of Carlos Castellano.
There's a flicker of recognition that passes across her face as she sweeps over him but nothing it seems that she could pinpoint.

"My name's Brent Deardon, tell your..." he pauses glancing down to the golden band on her finger before carrying on, "husband, I'll be here until closing."

Her lips twist slightly and Brent feels the flickers of a grin forming on his own lips when he sees that tiny little indent in her brow by still not being able to place him.

Jerking his chin as a sign of 'see you later', Brent luckily spots an empty seat in one of the corner booths just as a couple are leaving. Snagging it, he orders himself a large cup of coffee and prepares to wait.

**************


As the evening draws closer, the place slowly starts emptying out. Brent waits patiently, having done stake-outs longer than this. He shuffles again on his seat deliberating on whether to take another toilet break soon. Before he does though, someone slides into the seat opposite.
Carlos freaking Castellano.

And man does he look good. Guess small town, family life really does suit the motherfúcker.
The hair's shorter and he has a trimmed beard, not to mention that slight paunch he has under the light blue shirt.
"Deardon," he glowers clearly unhappy at seeing the man, "hoped to never see you again."

Brent gives a short, unmeaning bark of laughter.
"Good to see you too, brother. Quite the setup you have here. So what name do you and your girl go by now?" replies Brent.
Carlos's eyes narrow before he rolls them, "as if you don't already know. Charlotte prefers to go by Lola. And as you already know I'm Antonio Carlos Russo, just like we've always been."
"Right, of course."
The meaningful look from Carlos is wasted on Brent but he's generous enough not to call bullshít on that. He's not here to start anything with Castellano-sorry-Russo.