Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Dining Room
Meera froze, the chilled martini suddenly turning to lead in her stomach. She recognized the shorter man with the crooked nose. His name was Lorenzo Varga, a mid-level enforcer for the Marcone family—Damian’s fiercest rivals for control of the Lake Michigan shipping lanes. The warehouse shootout in the Southside that she had spent all morning covering up had involved Varga’s men.
""Is something wrong?"" David asked, noticing her sudden stillness.
""David,"" Meera said, her voice dropping into an icy, measured register that felt completely foreign to the dinner table. ""I need you to listen to me very carefully. Do not turn around. Do not look toward the front door.""
David chuckled nervously. ""What? Is this a game?""
""It isn't a game,"" she snapped, keeping her gaze locked on the approaching figures. They were weaving slowly through the tables, their right hands buried deep within the pockets of their wet coats. ""Take your wallet, put your credit card on the table, and when I tell you to stand, walk straight toward the restrooms in the back. There is a service door next to the kitchen that leads to an alley. Take it, get into a cab, and do not go back to your apartment tonight.""
David's face drained of color. ""Meera, you're scaring me. What's going on?""
""Move, David. Now.""
David fumbled with his wallet, his fingers trembling as he dropped a credit card onto the white cloth. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor, drawing annoyed looks from nearby patrons. He stood awkwardly, glanced once at Meera with wide, panicked eyes, and hurried toward the rear corridor just as Varga and his companion reached the booth.
Varga slid into the booth where David had been sitting just seconds ago. He had a harsh, weathered face that smelled of wet wool and cheap cigars. His partner remained standing in the aisle, his broad back blocking the sightline of the other patrons and the restaurant staff.
""Miss Finch,"" Varga said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. ""You're looking remarkably pretty tonight. Dark cherry silk. Very elegant. A bit loud for a quiet girl who types memos all day, isn't it?""
Meera leaned back against the crimson leather, forcing her posture to remain loose and indifferent, though every muscle along her spine was screaming. ""You're in Damian’s booth, Varga. You know how he feels about uninvited guests sitting where he eats.""
Varga smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. ""Damian Croft doesn't own this city anymore, sweetheart. Not after what happened at the docks this afternoon. Your boss got sloppy. He left three bodies behind, and more importantly, he left behind a paper trail. A paper trail that leads straight to a brilliant little secretary who handles all his offshore wiring.""
Meera didn't blink. ""You're bluffing. You don't know the first thing about forensic accounting.""
""I don't,"" Varga agreed smoothly. ""But Mr. Marcone does. And he’s willing to offer you a very simple choice. You come with us quietly, you hand over the decryption keys to Croft’s logistics network, and we let you catch a flight to wherever you want with enough cash to buy a private island. Or..."" He tilted his head toward his associate, whose hand shifted under his coat, revealing the distinct outline of a suppressed pistol. ""Or we take you by force, and things get extremely messy for everyone in this pretty little restaurant.""
Meera looked around. The pianist was still playing an upbeat jazz melody. A waiter was pouring champagne three tables away. Nobody had noticed the silent standoff.
""I don't carry decryption keys to a Friday dinner, you idiot,"" Meera whispered, her eyes flashing with cold contempt.
""That's fine,"" Varga said, reaching across the table to grab her wrist. ""We’ll go to your office and get them.""
His fingers closed like an iron clamp around her skin. Meera opened her mouth to scream—not because she expected help from the terrified patrons, but to create enough chaos to draw the armed security outside—when the sound of heavy footsteps stopped abruptly behind Varga's partner.
""Take your hands off her,"" a voice cut through the air.
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It wasn't loud. It wasn't hurried. It was low, flat, and absolute.
Damian Croft stood in the center of the aisle, still wearing his rumpled white shirt and loose tie, his trench coat unbuttoned. Behind him stood two of his personal security detail, their hands resting loosely at their waists, their expressions devoid of mercy.
