Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Hardwood
Arthur hurried forward.
"I will handle this, sir," Arthur stammered, gesturing frantically toward the main dining area.
"Please, right this way."
Roman did not move his gaze from the woman kneeling on the floor.
"I said she serves it," Roman repeated.
The quiet authority in his voice left absolutely no room for debate.
Arthur swallowed hard and nodded quickly.
"Of course, sir," the manager whispered.
Nora remained on her knees, staring at the drop of blood welling on her sliced index finger.
It mixed with the expensive red wine on the floor.
Roman stepped closer, his polished leather shoes crunching softly against the broken porcelain.
He reached down.
His hand closed around her wrist.
His grip was exactly as she remembered it.
It was warm, calloused, and unyielding.
He pulled her to her feet without effort.
"Get a bandage for that," Roman said quietly.
"Then bring a bottle of the reserve Cabernet to my table."
He did not wait for her answer.
He turned and followed the trembling hostess toward the secluded corner booth in the back.
Nora stood frozen in the center of the ruined dining room.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
Tommy, Roman’s hulking enforcer, lingered for a moment.
He looked at Nora with a strange, unreadable expression before following his boss.
Arthur immediately grabbed her shoulder again, dragging her toward the kitchen swinging doors.
"I do not care what history you have with that man," Arthur hissed into her ear.
"You wrap your finger, you get the wine, and you do not mess this up."
Nora stumbled into the bright fluorescent light of the kitchen.
She leaned against the stainless steel prep counter, gasping for air.
She had run for three years.
She had lived in cash-only motels, scrubbed toilets, and finally secured this miserable job just to stay invisible.
It was all over.
He had found her.
She wrapped a thick paper towel tightly around her bleeding finger.
She had two choices.
She could run out the back door into the freezing alley.
Or she could serve the devil his wine.
She knew Roman’s reach.
If she ran now, he would simply have Tommy drag her back by her hair.
She grabbed a fresh cork-lined tray with trembling hands.
She secured a dusty bottle of the reserve Cabernet and a single crystal glass.
She pushed back through the swinging doors into the hushed dining room.
Roman was sitting alone in the booth, his broad shoulders relaxed against the leather.
Tommy stood a few feet away, watching the room.
Nora approached the table and set the tray down.
She reached for the wine opener, but Roman’s hand shot out and grabbed hers again.
He slowly pried the opener from her trembling fingers.
"You are shaking, Nora," he murmured.
"I am working, Roman," she replied, her voice cracking slightly.
"Let go of me."
He did not let go.
Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal overcoat with his free hand.
He pulled out a small, thick manila envelope and tossed it onto the table.
"Open it," he commanded softly.
Nora stared at the envelope.
With her free hand, she awkwardly popped the metal clasp and slid the contents out.
It was a stack of high-resolution surveillance photographs.
The top photo showed her current apartment building in the outer boroughs.
The second photo showed the door to her specific unit, kicked off its hinges.
The third photo made her stomach violently drop.
It showed the interior of her tiny living room.
Flames were licking up the walls, consuming everything she owned.
In the center of the burning room, a man was tied to a chair, slumped forward in a pool of blood.
"You did this," she breathed, tears of horror finally spilling over her eyelashes.
Roman finally released her hand.
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"I did not set the fire, Nora," he said, leaning forward until his face was inches from hers.
"I am the only reason you are not sitting in that chair right now."
