Chapter 1 - The Winter-Ocean Gray
The shards of glass crunched beneath the busboy’s broom, a sharp rhythm that underscored the violent tightening of Derek’s fingers around my arm. The Onyx Room hummed with its usual indifferent wealth, the jazz quartet sliding smoothly into a minor chord as if nothing at all was happening beneath the crystal chandeliers.
“I didn't stutter, Clare Bear,” Derek hissed, his breath hot, sour, and smelling violently of cheap peppermint and whiskey. He applied another fraction of pressure, twisting the skin just enough to send a white-hot spike of pain down my forearm. “We are going to the kitchen hallway right now, and you are going to hand over whatever cash you’ve got tucked away from tonight’s tips.”
“Let go of me,” I whispered, forcing my teeth together to keep my voice from shaking. I kept a tight, frozen smile plastered across my face, playing the part of the attentive waitress to any lingering pair of eyes from the dining tables.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve running off, hiding in this high-end joint like you’re somebody important,” Derek muttered, his eyes darting frantically toward the service station doors. He was coming down from whatever high had dragged him across the city, and the jittery desperation in his frame made him twice as unpredictable. “You owe me, Clara. You cost me my car, you cost me my apartment, and now you’re going to pay up.”
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Every defensive wall I had spent eight months building—the third lock on my apartment door, the changed phone number, the altered hair—felt like tissue paper against the raw, suffocating reality of his grip.
Across the lounge, through the amber haze of the dim lighting, I caught movement in the corner booth.
May you like
Arthur Moretti had not touched his scotch. His dark, tailored shoulders shifted slightly against the velvet upholstery as he leaned forward. The pale scar slicing through his left eyebrow caught the low light, accentuating the hard, flat planes of his face. His winter-ocean gray eyes were no longer resting casually on the room; they were locked entirely on Derek’s hand clamped around my arm.
Arthur didn't blink. He didn't signal his guards. He simply set his glass down on the mahogany table with a tiny, deliberate clink that felt heavier than an approaching storm.
