Chapter 2 - The Map of Port Mercer
The interior of the sedan smelled of cedarwood, leather, and rain. The partition between the driver and the back seat was up, enclosing them in a private, soundproof cocoon. Nora sat as far away from Roman as the plush leather seat permitted, her eyes flicking toward the digital clock on the dash: 2:15 AM.
“Why?” Nora asked, staring straight ahead as the car glided silently through the rain-slicked streets.
“Why what?”
“Why pull me into this? You could have let David fire me, let the Alieds forget about me, or let me walk down that alley. A crime boss doesn't pick up stray waitresses in the middle of the night out of charity.”
Roman turned slightly, resting his arm along the back of the seat, though he didn't invade her space. “Charity is a poor business model. But competence? Competence is rare. Especially in a city where most people fold the moment someone speaks to them in a dialect they don't expect.”
“I was a military linguist, Mr. Vale. I spent five years translating intercepted chatter in rooms full of men who thought women were invisible. Your little parlor trick with the Damascus dialect didn't terrify me. It just annoyed me.”
Roman let out a short, genuine laugh—a dry, surprised sound. “A military linguist. Discharged under... interesting circumstances, if I recall your background check correctly.”
Nora’s head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing. “You ran a background check on me in the ten minutes between dinner service and my termination?”
“I run background checks on everyone who breathes in my city,” Roman said calmly. “Especially people who can translate intercepted Syrian oil manifests without blinking. You refused an unlawful wiretap order in 2022, Nora. You threw away a pension because your commanding officer wanted to cover up a black-site interrogation.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because,” Roman said quietly, “I’ve been looking for someone who speaks Arabic, understands military intelligence protocols, and has zero respect for authority.”
The car slowed, turning down a private access road flanked by high brick walls topped with security sensors. They were heading toward the industrial docks, far past the tourist traps and seafood restaurants, deep into the heart of Port Mercer’s real economy—the shipping container yards controlled entirely by Roman Vale.
“I’m not looking for a new employer, Mr. Vale,” Nora said firmly as the car glided into a subterranean parking garage beneath a massive concrete warehouse. “I want to pay my brother’s rehab bill, keep my electricity on, and stay as far away from your world as humanly possible.”
“Your brother, Thomas,” Roman said smoothly as the car stopped. “Currently enrolled at St. Jude’s Recovery Center on the north ridge. Weekly payment due Friday: twelve hundred dollars. Your current bank balance: one hundred sixty-three dollars and forty-two cents. Plus the hundred David handed you.”
May you like
Nora’s blood went ice-cold. She grabbed the handle of the door, pushing it open before he could finish. “You are a terrifying, manipulative bastard.”
“I’m a realist,” Roman called out as she stepped out into the damp garage. “And right now, Nora, you don't have a choice. The Alied brothers are already looking for the waitress who humiliated them. And my security detail is the only thing standing between you and the bottom of the harbor.”
