Chapter 1 - The Cost of a Free Bottle
Greg blinked at the restaurant manager, his fork hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth.
"Paid for?" Greg laughed, a short, nervous sound that rattled the stem of his water glass. "By who? Is this a promotion or something? We didn't win a raffle."
"Not a promotion, sir," the manager said, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the table cloth rather than Caroline. There was a practiced, desperate politeness to his posture—the rigid stance of a man who knew exactly which neighborhood gangsters owned the mortgage on the building. "An associate of ours asked to settle your bill. And to offer his compliments to Ms. Jones."
Greg slowly set his fork down. The polyester sheen of his navy suit jacket caught the amber dining room lights as he turned to Caroline, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "An associate? Caroline, do you know these people? Is this some kind of joke?"
"It’s not a joke," Caroline said quietly.
She wasn't looking at Greg. She was staring at the unopened bottle of Barolo. The label was old, dusty, and worth more than Greg’s entire outfit. It was a clear, quiet signal, dropped cleanly onto their table like a calling card left on a corpse.
I know where you are. I know who you're with. And you cannot hide behind an accountant.
"Caroline?" Greg’s voice rose a half-octave, tinged with the sudden, uncomfortable realization that he was entirely out of his depth. "Who paid for the meal? Who is that guy?"
"Nobody you need to worry about," Caroline said, forcing her voice to stay level. She reached for her purse, unzipped it, and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, dropping it next to her untouched dessert. "Greg, I’m sorry. Something's come up. I have to go."
"Go? We haven't even had dessert yet! What is going on?" He stood up half an inch, his chair scraping against the floorboards. "Are you in trouble? Do I need to call someone?"
"No," Caroline said, looking him straight in the eyes. There was a terrible, protective pity in her chest. Greg was a good man. He liked spreadsheets and weekend hikes and complaining about his tenant upstairs. He didn't deserve to be caught in the undertow of a man who measured men’s shoulders for caskets. "If you want to stay safe, Greg, you'll forget you ever had dinner with me tonight."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She turned and walked out of the restaurant into the sharp Chicago chill.
The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflective under the streetlamps. She didn't call a cab. She walked three blocks toward the elevated train station, her heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm against the concrete. She kept her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, her fingers brushing against a spare wooden bobbin she’d shoved in there earlier that afternoon.
When she unlocked the heavy glass door of Jones Custom Tailoring, the brass chime sang out its familiar, expensive-sounding note.
The shop was dark. The streetlights outside cast long, geometric shadows across the rows of wool swatches and the wooden cutting table.
Except the shop wasn't empty.
A figure was sitting in the low-backed wooden chair by the fitting mirror, half-swallowed by the gloom. He wasn't wearing his overcoat tonight. Just a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the thick, pale scars along his forearms.
Dante Baker didn't stand up when she entered. He just watched her reflection in the mirror as she clicked the deadbolt home behind her.
"You left a nice man sitting alone with a very expensive bottle of wine," Dante said. His voice was low, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth.
"He’s an accountant," Caroline said, dropping her keys onto the counter with a sharp clatter. "He thinks tax season is stressful. You shouldn't have terrorized him."
"I didn't terrorize him." Dante finally turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers through the dim light. "I bought him dinner. It's cheaper than what it would have cost him to keep dating you."
Caroline felt a hot spike of anger cut through her exhaustion. She walked across the floor, stopping just three feet from where he sat. She didn't flinch. She didn't look down.
"You don't get to clear my restaurant tables, Dante. You don't get to audit my life."
"You told me you didn't have a boyfriend," Dante replied, his voice dangerously even. He stood up, towering over her in the cramped space of the shop. "In my world, when something has no owner, it’s available for acquisition."
"I am not property," Caroline snapped, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts. "I run a tailoring shop. My grandfather built this business with his hands, and I keep it alive with mine. I am not a suit you get to order off a rack just because you like the drape."
Dante stared down at her for a long, suffocating moment. The air between them felt thin, charged with a strange, magnetic friction that made her skin prickle.
Then, slowly, a heavy knock rattled the frosted glass of the front door.
Neither of them moved.
The knock came again—harder this time, accompanied by the muffled sound of shouting from the sidewalk outside.
Dante didn't look at the door. His eyes stayed fixed on Caroline’s face.
May you like
"Open it," Dante whispered. "Let's see who else thinks they have a claim on your evening."
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