Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE BACK BOOTH
The question should not have frightened me more than the bruise on my face.
But it did.
“Who did this to you?”
The man in the back booth had spoken quietly.
That was what made every person in the Brass Grill stop moving.
No raised voice. No threat. No theatrical display of anger.
Just six words.
I stood beside his table holding a coffee pot in one hand and a blood-speckled napkin in the other.
Up close, Adrian Moretti looked nothing like the stories people told about him.
Those stories made him sound enormous. Monstrous. A shadow that swallowed entire blocks of Manhattan.
In reality, he was maybe thirty-six, tall even while seated, with black hair brushed neatly away from his forehead and the controlled posture of a man who never needed to hurry. His charcoal suit probably cost more than everything I owned.
His eyes were the dangerous part.
They were fixed on my mouth.
Not on my body.
Not on my name tag.
Not on the coffee.
On the blood.
“I fell,” I said.
The man standing behind him almost smiled.
Adrian did not.
“What did you fall into?”
I swallowed.
“A cabinet.”
His gaze traveled slowly to the bruise beginning to darken beneath my cheekbone.
“That cabinet have a fist?”
My stomach tightened.
At another table, someone quietly put down a fork.
I hated all of them for listening.
More than that, I hated myself for feeling embarrassed.
I hadn't done anything wrong.
Yet shame has strange loyalties.
It protects the person who hurts you and punishes you for being hurt.
“I’m fine.”
Adrian leaned back.
“No, you’re working.”
“I don't understand.”
“People confuse those things.” His voice remained level. “Being able to stand doesn't mean you're fine.”
I looked at him then.
Really looked.
Something cold and old lived behind his expression.
Not pity.
Recognition.
That scared me most.
I reached for his empty coffee cup.
“Refill?”
His hand covered the rim before I could pour.
“What’s your name?”
My name tag was three inches from his face.
“Claire.”
“I can read, Claire.”
Heat moved up my neck.
“Then why ask?”
One of his men shifted.
Apparently sarcasm was not a common response to Adrian Moretti.
To my surprise, his mouth moved slightly.
Not quite a smile.
“I wanted to hear you say it.”
Before I could answer, the bell over the diner door rang.
Cold rain blew inside.
Then Tommy walked in.
Every muscle in my body recognized him before my brain did.
Gray hoodie.
Wet hair.
Jaw clenched.
Hands already restless.
“Claire.”
My fingers tightened around the coffee pot.
Adrian noticed.
Tommy didn't notice Adrian.
That was Tommy's problem.
He rarely noticed anything beyond himself.
“I've been calling you.”
“I’m working.”
“You took my money.”
“It was my money.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Come outside.”
“No.”
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Tommy glanced around.
Public humiliation was gasoline to him.
“I said come outside.”
Adrian finally looked at him.
“She's working.”
Tommy turned.
“Mind your business.”
Nobody breathed.
Even I knew that sentence had just shortened Tommy's life expectancy.
Adrian's men straightened.
Adrian merely rested one hand beside his coffee cup.
“I’m trying.”
Tommy laughed nervously.
“Who the hell are you?”
The diner owner, Mr. Feldman, appeared from the kitchen looking as if he'd just watched a man step in front of a train.
“Tommy,” he whispered. “Go home.”
Tommy ignored him.
He came closer to me.
“Claire. Now.”
When he grabbed my wrist, Adrian stood.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
But the room changed.
Tommy released me almost instinctively.
Adrian was taller than him.
Calmer.
Much more frightening.
“Don't touch her,” Adrian said.
Tommy looked between the men near the windows, the two by the counter, and Adrian.
Understanding arrived late.
But it arrived.
His face changed.
“Moretti?”
Adrian said nothing.
Tommy stepped backward.
“I didn't know.”
That sentence made something inside me crack.
Not I'm sorry.
Not I shouldn't have hurt her.
Just—
I didn't know who was watching.
Adrian's expression hardened too.
“You weren't afraid when she was alone.”
Tommy's face drained.
“Look, man, this is between me and my girl.”
“I’m not your girl,” I said.
Everyone turned toward me.
Including Tommy.
My heart hammered so hard that I felt dizzy.
But I continued.
“You hit me because I wouldn't give you my rent money.”
“That isn't what happened.”
“You called me useless.”
“Claire—”
“You broke my phone last month.”
His eyes flashed.
“Shut up.”
That old fear rose instantly.
My shoulders pulled inward.
Adrian saw that too.
He stepped between us.
Not touching me.
Just becoming a wall.
Tommy stared at his back.
For the first time in two years, he couldn't reach me.
“You should leave,” Adrian said.
Tommy swallowed.
“Sure.”
Then Adrian added, “She decides whether you're allowed near her again.”
Tommy's expression changed.
A flicker of hatred appeared.
Not toward Adrian.
Toward me.
That frightened me enough to understand something important.
Tommy wasn't finished.
He backed toward the door.
“See you at home, Claire.”
My stomach dropped.
Adrian turned slightly.
“She going home with you?”
It took me several seconds to answer.
“No.”
“Good.”
Tommy stormed outside.
The bell rattled behind him.
Conversation did not immediately return.
Adrian sat again.
I looked down at my shaking hand.
Coffee had spilled onto the table.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“The coffee.”
He glanced at the puddle.
“I'll survive.”
That almost made me laugh.
Instead, tears burned my eyes.
I turned away.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“There somewhere safe you can stay tonight?”
“My friend has a couch.”
“Call her.”
“My phone's dead.”
One of Adrian's men immediately placed a phone on the table.
I hesitated.
“I don't want charity.”
Adrian studied me.
“Good.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you still think help and charity are the same thing.”
I stared at him.
He pushed the phone slightly closer.
“They aren't.”
My best friend Marisol answered on the second ring.
Twenty minutes later, she was on her way.
For the remainder of my shift, Tommy never returned.
Adrian and his men stayed until closing.
They ordered nothing else.
They simply waited.
At 12:32 a.m., Marisol's old Honda stopped outside.
Adrian stood as I put on my coat.
“Claire.”
I looked back.
He handed me a business card.
No company logo.
No title.
Only his name and a number.
“I don't need protection.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“Then what's this?”
“In case tonight becomes tomorrow.”
I didn't understand.
Not yet.
I shoved the card into my pocket.
Then I left.
Rain hit my face the moment I stepped outside.
Marisol unlocked the passenger door.
I had almost reached the car when Adrian's driver called my name.
“Miss Bennett.”
I turned.
He held something black.
My wallet.
“You left this inside.”
I took it from him.
“Thank you.”
He walked away.
I climbed into Marisol's car and opened the wallet to check whether my cash was still there.
Four dollars.
Driver's license.
Expired MetroCard.
A photograph of my mother.
And something else.
A folded piece of paper had been slipped behind the photograph.
I frowned and pulled it free.
It wasn't from Adrian.
It was a photocopy of a bank transfer.
MORETTI DEVELOPMENT HOLDINGS
PAYMENT AUTHORIZED: $30,000
The recipient's name made my breath stop.
THOMAS ROURKE.
Tommy.
My boyfriend.
The man who had spent two years telling me he was broke.
The man who had hit me over thirty dollars.
Marisol glanced at me.
“What?”
I couldn't answer.
Because beneath Tommy's name was another line.
Project authorization: A. Moretti.
I looked through the rain-streaked windshield toward the diner.
Adrian Moretti was standing behind the glass.
Watching my car.
May you like
And suddenly I wasn't sure whether he had saved me tonight—
or whether he already knew exactly who I was.
