Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Zodiac RoomThe three bodyguards moved with the synchronized, silent grace of apex predators. They didn't storm the room or draw weapons; they simply filled the space, their heavy charcoal overcoats parting slightly to reveal the unmistakable bulk of concealed shoulder holsters.
Brett, caught red-handed peering through the door like a kicked puppy, stumbled backward into the hallway, his face turning the color of skim milk as the lead guard—a mountain of a man named Marcus—fixed him with a stare so lethal Brett looked like he might actually faint.
“Close the door, Marcus,” Salvatore signed without looking back, his hands moving with crisp authority.
Marcus gave a sharp, military nod, pulled the heavy walnut door shut with a soft click, locking us back inside our own silent universe. He didn't leave the room, however; he and the other two guards stationed themselves discreetly around the perimeter, their arms crossed over their chests, their eyes never leaving me.
Panic should have seized me. I was twenty-seven, standing alone in a confined space with a cartel-level syndicate boss and his enforcers. Yet, looking at Salvatore, I felt an inexplicable calm. There was no menace in his posture now—only a deep, quiet curiosity that felt entirely foreign in a city where everyone wanted something from him.
Salvatore picked up the leather-bound menu, flipped it open, and looked up at me, his fingers tapping gently against the table before forming the signs: What do you recommend? The kitchen here is usually pretentious garbage.
A sudden, nervous laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I managed to swallow it, replying with my hands: The kitchen is pretentious, yes, but the chef respects money. If you order the dry-aged ribeye medium-rare with truffle butter and roasted bone marrow, they’ll actually cook it properly. If you order the sea bass, you’ll taste yesterday’s leftovers.
Salvatore raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement dancing in his dark eyes. He signed slowly: Honest. I’m not used to servers insulting the menu.
I’m not a typical server, I signed back, my hands moving with confidence. I’m just working off my student loans and keeping my brother in hearing aids. Honesty is much faster than flattery.
He nodded slowly, his fingers forming the order: Ribeye, bone marrow. And bring me whatever red wine you think won’t give me a migraine.
A 2018 Cabernet from the Napa Valley shelf, I replied instantly. Third shelf down, behind the Italian imports. It’s overpriced, but it’s smooth.
“Understood,” Salvatore said aloud—his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated with a rich, resonant timber from years of disuse. It was the first time I had heard him speak. It sounded like grinding stones wrapped in velvet. He rarely used his voice, preferring the absolute safety of silence, which made the sound all the more intimate.
I picked up my tray, gave a polite nod, and turned toward the kitchen door.
When I pushed back into the main kitchen, the atmosphere was thick with palpable tension. Brett was leaning against the stainless-steel prep table, his chest heaving, his face red with a mixture of humiliation and seething rage. The line cooks stopped what they were doing, staring at me as if I had just walked out of a haunted house.
“What the hell happened in there?!” Brett hissed, marching up to me and grabbing my arm roughly. “Why didn't he throw you out? What did you say to him?!”
I looked down at his hand gripping my forearm, my pulse spiking with sudden anger—not fear, but pure, unadulterated fury. I had spent four years taking abuse from managers like Brett while working myself to the bone. Tonight, things had changed.
“Take your hand off me, Brett,” I said clearly, my voice cold and steady enough to cut glass.
“You little bitch—” Brett started, his face twisting into a snarl.
Before he could finish the sentence, the heavy kitchen service doors swung open with a violent crash.
Marcus, Salvatore’s lead bodyguard, stepped into the stainless-steel kitchen. The entire room went dead silent. Line cooks dropped their tongs; dishwashers froze over the industrial sinks. Marcus was six-foot-four of pure muscle and bad intentions, and he moved with the terrifying certainty of a man who owned the building.
He walked straight up to Brett, towering over him by a foot, and placed a massive, heavy hand directly on Brett’s shoulder—clamping down with enough pressure to make Brett wince in agony.
“Mr. Marquetti heard raised voices coming from the kitchen,” Marcus said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that filled the room. “He finds raised voices deeply unpleasant while he’s trying to enjoy his appetizer.”
Brett’s knees buckled slightly. “I—I was just—we were just talking—”
“You laid your hands on the lady,” Marcus interrupted smoothly, his gray eyes dead and unblinking. “In our world, that’s considered an extreme breach of etiquette. If Mr. Marquetti hears your voice in this kitchen ever again, you won't have to worry about managing restaurant shifts anymore. Do we understand each other?”
Brett nodded frantically, unable to form actual words, choking on his own terror.
Marcus released his grip, wiped his hand casually on his trousers as if he had just touched something unclean, and turned his gaze to me. His expression softened by a fraction.
“The wine, Miss Tessa,” Marcus said politely. “The boss is waiting.”
May you like
As I grabbed the bottle of Cabernet and the crystal decanter from the rack, I realized something profound: the invisible waitress who was supposed to be the joke of the year had just acquired the most terrifying bodyguard in the state of Illinois.
And the night was only just beginning.
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