Chapter 1 - The Weight of Leather and Carbon
The interior of the Mercedes-Maybach felt like an absolute vacuum, swallowing the roar of the morning city traffic outside as if it were nothing more than a faint whisper. The leather seats were so soft that Nema Reyes felt she was sinking into them, her worn-out canvas shopping bag clutched tightly in her lap like a shield against an invisible firing squad.
Vincent sat in the front passenger seat, silent, his broad shoulders squared, staring straight ahead through the tinted windshield. He hadn't turned around to look at her once since she had climbed into the vehicle outside her crumbling apartment building.
Nema’s mind raced back to Frank’s Diner. Less than twelve hours ago, she had been wiping down sticky tables, dodging greasy spoon handles, and praying she could make rent before the utility company cut off her electricity. Now, she was riding in a car that likely cost more than her entire neighborhood combined, heading toward a man who commanded lethal loyalty with a single shift of his shoulders.
"Where are we going?" Nema finally asked, her voice cracking slightly despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
Vincent didn't turn his head. "To a place where business is conducted, Miss Reyes. Mr. Vasquez prefers privacy."
"Privacy," Nema repeated bitterly. "Is that what you call dragging a broke waitress out of her morning routine?"
"You saved his life last night," Vincent replied, his voice a flat, measured baritone. "Mr. Vasquez does not leave debts unpaid. Whether that debt is favorable or fatal depends entirely on how the conversation goes."
The car smoothly exited the highway, gliding down an exclusive private drive lined with towering iron gates and ancient oak trees. They pulled up before a sprawling glass-and-stone estate perched on a high ridge overlooking the skyline. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress designed by an architect with an expensive, minimalist god complex.
As the Maybach came to a halt, Vincent stepped out and opened her door.
Nema swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and stepped out onto the polished slate entryway. The cold morning air carried the sharp scent of pine and high-end security.
She was escorted through a massive double glass door into a vaulted foyer where light poured down from a skylight high above. In the center of the room stood Dom Vasquez. He had traded his navy coat for a crisp, open-collared charcoal shirt, but the dangerous, coiled intensity in his posture remained unchanged.
Dom turned slowly, his sharp eyes locking onto Nema’s face.
"You didn't eat your breakfast, Miss Reyes," Dom said, his voice smooth and deep. "Vincent tells me you tried to negotiate with a grocery bag instead."
"I have a budget, Mr. Vasquez," Nema said, holding her chin up, refusing to let him see how badly her knees were shaking. "Something rich men usually don't understand. And I have a job to get back to—assuming Frank hasn't fired me for walking off shift."
A faint, humorless smile touched the corners of Dom’s mouth. "Frank won't fire you. In fact, Frank has been generously compensated for your extended leave of absence."
May you like
Nema’s eyes narrowed. "You bought my diner shift?"
"I bought your safety," Dom corrected, stepping closer. "Which, at the moment, appears to be a depreciating asset. Sit down, Nema. We need to talk about Tommy."
