The kitchen of Bellamy’s was already sweating by five o’clock. The air smelled of burnt garlic, dishwater, and the sharp tang of floor bleach.

Inside, the restaurant was closed for breakfast service—something that had never happened in the seven-year history of the establishment.

Brett Mallory stood by the host stand, his face pale, his fingers tapping a frantic rhythm against the reservation book. Behind him, Carla was scrubbing the espresso machine for the third time, her usual sarcastic swagger completely gone.

"Where is he?" Carla snapped, her voice shaking slightly as she glanced toward the front doors. "Brett, the district manager hasn't answered his phone since last night. What do you mean the lease was sold?"

"I don't know!" Brett yelled, slamming his hand down on the wooden podium. "I got a call at six a.m. from corporate legal saying the entire property was acquired in an all-cash buyout over the weekend. They didn't even give a thirty-day notice. The new owner is coming in for an audit this morning."

Before Carla could answer, the heavy brass-trimmed front doors swung open.

Three men walked in out of the rain.

The two men flanking the entrance wore identical charcoal suits, dark overcoats, and carried themselves with the dead-eyed, heavy-shouldered efficiency of professional protection. They didn't look at the decor, the tables, or the crystal chandeliers. They looked at the corners, the exits, the blind spots.

And in the center walked Salvatore Marquette.

He wore a dark wool coat, unbuttoned at the top, his tall frame cutting through the dim morning light with absolute, unbothered authority. A thin white scar traced down his cheek, stark against his pale skin.

Brett swallowed hard, pasted a shaky, desperate smile on his face, and stepped out from behind the host stand.

"Mr. Marquette," Brett stammered, his voice pitching an octave higher than usual. "Good morning. I—I wasn't informed there was a change in ownership. We usually deal with the corporate office on LaSalle Street, but I’m sure we can—"

Salvatore didn't stop walking. He didn't even look at Brett.

He walked past the host stand, past the glass partitions, and stopped in the center of the main dining room. His dark eyes swept over the tables, the polished floor, the service doors leading back to the kitchen.

Then, very slowly, he turned his head and looked toward the service hallway.

Tessa Whitlock stepped out from behind the kitchen doors.

She wasn't wearing her black uniform. She wore a simple charcoal turtleneck, dark trousers, and her copper hair was tied back in a neat, professional knot. She didn't look down at her shoes. She looked straight ahead.

Brett’s jaw dropped. He looked from Tessa to Salvatore, his brain struggling to assemble the pieces of a puzzle that had just shattered in his face.

"Tessa?" Brett whispered, his voice cracking. "What is she... what is she doing here? She’s not scheduled until Thursday!"

Salvatore raised his hands, his fingers moving with slow, deliberate precision in the dead silence of the dining room.

She’s not on the schedule anymore, Brett, Salvatore signed. She’s running the floor.

Brett took a step backward, hitting the edge of the host stand. "Running the floor? Are you out of your mind? She’s a waitress! She’s a—she’s a nobody!"

Salvatore didn't answer with signs this time. He let his hands drop to his sides, his dark eyes locking onto Brett with a weight that made the manager’s knees go weak.

One of the men in the charcoal suits stepped forward, pulling a thick, legal binder from his leather briefcase and dropping it onto the wooden podium with a heavy thud.

"Effective immediately," the man said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, "Bellamy’s Restaurant is under new management. Furthermore, an internal financial audit has revealed twenty-four counts of wage theft, embezzlement from the tip pool, and systematic harassment of staff members under your direct supervision, Mr. Mallory."

Brett’s face drained of every drop of blood until he looked like a corpse under the fluorescent lights. He turned frantically toward Carla, then toward the kitchen doors where Owen was peeking out, wide-eyed and terrified.

"You can't do this," Brett choked out, his voice shaking violently. "You can't just fire me! I have a contract! I know people downtown!"

Salvatore raised his right hand, signing one final message, his movements cold, crisp, and absolute.

You knew the wrong people, Brett, Salvatore signed. And you spent four years making noise in a room where someone else was trying to listen.

He turned his gaze away from Brett, dismissing him as completely as if he were a speck of dust on a table, and walked over to where Tessa stood by the service door.

Salvatore stopped two feet away from her. For a moment, neither of them moved. The restaurant around them was dead silent, the storm raging outside against the glass, while inside, the world had completely rearranged itself.

Your shift starts now, Salvatore signed, a faint, rare ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

Tessa looked down at her hands, then back up into his dark, steady eyes.

She didn't look down. She didn't hide.