Chapter 2 - The Approach
Derek didn't notice. He was too consumed by his own twitchy rage, his face leaning closer to mine until his wet hair brushed my forehead.
“Move,” Derek muttered, shoving me slightly toward the narrow corridor leading to the kitchens. “Don't make a scene where I have to hurt you worse, Clara. You know how this ends.”
I planted my boots against the polished hardwood floor, refusing to budge an inch. The panic in my chest was rapidly giving way to a cold, bitter fury. I was done running. I was done playing the victim in a story he wrote. But before I could draw enough breath to scream for the manager, the ambient noise around our service station suddenly shifted.
The low murmur of nearby conversations died down. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Two men in impeccably tailored charcoal suits materialized on either side of our station with terrifying, silent efficiency. They didn't draw weapons, but their posture—balanced, heavy-footed, and utterly immovable—blocked every exit route.
Derek blinked, finally breaking his focus on me. He glanced to his left, then to his right, his shoulders hunching defensively. “What the hell? Hey, back off, man. We’re just having a private conversation.”
May you like
Neither of the men answered. They didn't even look at Derek. Their dark, professional eyes were fixed entirely on a single figure rising from the corner booth across the room.
Arthur Moretti walked with a measured, unhurried stride. Every step he took felt deliberate, like a predator closing the final distance on trapped prey. The wealthy patrons nearby instinctively leaned away, clearing a wide, respectful path as he crossed the Persian rug.
