Chapter 5 - ""Sit With the Staff""
Albert’s smile stiffened, though he recovered his composure with the smooth practice of an elder statesman. He stepped down from the dais, spreading his arms wide in an expansive gesture of welcoming innocence.
""Darius! Nephew, thank God you’re alive!"" Albert exclaimed, his voice ringing through the silent hall. ""We heard the horrific news about the highway ambush! We were just raising a glass to Elena’s memory. Come, take your seat at the head of the table. Lorenzo has agreed to our terms.""
Darius walked slowly down the center aisle. Every step left a muddy smear across the pristine ivory carpet. He didn't break stride until he stood inches from Albert’s face. The sheer physical presence of the younger Don made the older man take an involuntary half-step backward.
""You raised a glass to her memory?"" Darius whispered.
""We must show strength to our associates, my boy,"" Albert stammered, his eyes darting toward the armed mezzanine guards. ""Grief must wait for private quarters. Come, sit.""
Darius’s gaze shifted across the room. He didn't look at the high-table dignitaries. His dark eyes scanned the perimeter—the waiters, the dish-clearers, the busboys pinned against the wood paneling by his security detachment.
Near the dessert cart, Elena tried to pull the brim of her service cap lower, but the movement was clumsy. The heavy silver tray in her hands wavered, the crystal flutes clinking together with a faint, brittle chime.
A snobbish lieutenant sitting at the edge table snapped his fingers at her without looking up. ""Hey! Maid! Keep the noise down! Put that tray down and go sit with the rest of the staff in the corner until the bosses finish talking! Go on—sit with the staff where you belong!""
The words sliced through the silence.
Darius’s head snapped toward the sound.
Elena kept her head lowered, turning to obey the order and retreat toward the service pantry. But as she set the silver tray onto the sideboard, the bright halogen spotlight caught her hands.
They weren't the smooth, unblemished hands of a hotel server.
They were wrapped in thick, crude scullery gauze, and bright arterial blood was blooming through the white fabric like blossoming roses. Embedded near the knuckle wraps, visible even from twenty paces, was the unmistakable gleam of a tiny platinum setting—the inner crest band she had refused to surrender even when he banished her from the penthouse.
Darius stopped breathing.
The entire room seemed to contract into the space between them. He recognized the slight tilt of her shoulder, the proud curve of her spine that even exhaustion couldn't break, and the raw, butchered bandages that told the horrific story of the riverbank he had just torn apart searching for her corpse.
He knew why she was standing in gray cotton among the dishwashers. He knew why her hands were shredded. He knew that the woman he had commanded his men to cast out had run through fire and glass, only to end up being told to sit with the staff in his own banquet hall.
A sound tore from Darius’s throat—a low, feral growl that caused the veteran capos nearest him to drop their hands toward their holsters.
May you like
""Darius?"" Albert asked, suddenly sweating through his silk collar. ""What are you looking at?""
Darius didn't answer. He turned his back on the high table, ignored the Don of the Romano family, and walked directly toward the service station in the shadow of the pantry curtain.
