Chapter 2 - The Shadow Outside the ClubAt 2:15 AM, the heavy brass doors of the Onyx Club swung shut behind me, sealing in the scent of spilled gin and expensive cigars.
The cool night air swept down the dark alleyway, biting through my thin apron and work shirt. I pulled my worn wool jacket tighter around my shoulders, my tired feet aching with every step toward the street corner where I usually caught the late-night bus back to my cramped apartment in South Chicago.
Standing beneath the flickering streetlamp at the end of the alley was David.
He wore a rumpled leather jacket, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his posture slouched and impatient. When he saw me walking toward him, he didn't offer a smile or ask how my shift went. He marched straight up to me, his face contorted in selfish irritation.
"Where have you been, Clara?!" David snapped, his voice loud enough to echo off the brick walls. "I've been texting you for three hours! Did you get the tips from the VIP booths or what? The landlord is coming by tomorrow at eight, and I'm short four hundred bucks!"
I stopped five feet from him, looking at the man I had spent three years supporting, making excuses for, and allowing to drain my bank account.
"I worked a double shift, David," I spoke, my voice flat and completely drained of warmth. "My feet are bleeding, and the first thing you ask me is about four hundred dollars?"
"Don't start with the attitude!" David stepped closer, grabbing my wrist with a rough, controlling grip that squeezed the bruise left by my tray. "You promised you'd handle rent this month! I have investments to make! I need that cash now!"
"Let go of her."
The baritone voice didn't come from the alley. It came from the street.
David froze, his head snapping toward the curb.
Idling silently near the fire hydrant was a massive, midnight-black armored Maybach. Standing beside the open rear passenger door, wearing a dark wool overcoat that made his broad shoulders look vast and imposing, was Roman Gallagher.
Flanking him were Viktor and two armed operators, their hands resting comfortably inside their tailored coats.
David’s grip on my wrist loosened instantly, his face turning paper-white as he recognized the man whose picture appeared in the city's financial and crime columns every week.
"G-Gallagher...?" David stammered, taking a panicked step backward. "Look, man, this is a private matter between me and my girlfriend—"
"She isn't your girlfriend anymore," Roman interrupted cleanly, stepping across the wet pavement with the fluid, terrifying grace of a panther.
He didn't draw a gun. He simply walked until he stood two inches from David, his towering six-foot-four frame completely blocking out the streetlight, casting a long, suffocating shadow over my ex.
"And if you ever put your hands on her wrist again," Roman whispered into the quiet night air, "I will ensure your investments are managed from an orthopedic ward."
David let out a choked, terrified squeak, turned on his heel, and ran down the street as fast as his legs could carry him, abandoning his coat and his dignity entirely.
May you like
Roman didn't watch him leave. He turned his storm-gray eyes slowly onto my face, his broad hand reaching out to gently, reverently adjust the collar of my wool jacket.
"Get in the car, Clara," Roman ordered softly. "Your shift is officially over."
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