Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Fired Waitress
The heavy rear metal door of Leto slammed shut, locking behind Nora with a flat, final metallic click. The alleyway was cold, slick with a fine drizzle that turned the greasy pavement into a mirror for the flickering amber sodium lights above. Nora adjusted the strap of her worn canvas bag, her fingers brushing against the crisp edge of the hundred-dollar bill David had clumsily shoved into her palm as severance pay—hush money, really, wrapped in pity.
One hundred dollars. It wouldn't cover Tommy’s rehab installment due on Friday. It wouldn't pay the electricity bill with its glaring red warning. And it certainly wouldn't buy back the three years of quiet, invisible anonymity she had carefully constructed for herself in Port Mercer.
“Stupid,” Nora whispered to the dark brick wall, her breath pluming into white clouds. “You couldn't just keep your head down and wipe the damn wine.”
A low, deep rumble of an engine cut through the hiss of the rain.
A matte-black armored sedan—the kind of vehicle that absorbed headlights rather than reflecting them—idled silently at the mouth of the alley. Its tinted rear window hissed downward, gliding into the door panel with absolute mechanical precision.
Roman Vale sat inside.
He wasn't looking at a phone or a ledger. He was watching her, his pale eyes catching the amber glow of the streetlamp, sharp and analytical.
“The restaurant manager has terrible taste in personnel,” Roman said in English this time, his voice smooth, carrying the cultured cadence of a man who spent his life in rooms where people whispered. “Firing the only person in the building who has any spine.”
Nora didn't flinch. She kept her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, her posture rigid. “If you’re here to tip me for the Arabic lesson, Mr. Vale, I charge a much higher hourly rate than I did for pouring Barolo.”
A slow, unexpected smirk touched the corner of Roman’s mouth.
“Get in,” he said.
“I’d rather walk through a minefield.”
“You already are,” Roman replied softly, his gaze hardening. “The men you insulted tonight—Tariq and Sami Alied—don't care about a spilled drop of wine. But they care very deeply about being spoken down to in a language they consider their exclusive domain. By dawn, they’ll own this block. And anyone who humiliated them in it.”
Nora stared at him, her heart skipping a heavy beat. She knew the Alied brothers by reputation, and reputation in Port Mercer usually meant unmarked graves near the shipping yards.
May you like
“And you?” Nora challenged, lifting her chin. “Are you offering me a ride home out of the goodness of your dark, criminal heart?”
“I’m offering you a choice,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave. “Walk down this alley and spend the next forty-eight hours looking over your shoulder until Tariq’s cleaners find you... or get in the car and listen to what I have to say.”
