Chapter 5 - The Quiet Corner
The restaurant slowly resumed its artificial hum, patrons whispering behind cupped hands while the manager bowed apologetically to Arthur before retreating into the shadows.
I stood frozen beside the service station, my tray still clutched in my trembling hands, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had spent eight months hiding, running, and fighting my own battles in the dark. In less than two minutes, Arthur Moretti had erased my nightmare with a flick of his wrist and a word to his men.
Arthur turned back toward me. His gray eyes softened—not into kindness, exactly, but into something deeply analytical, as if he were reading every line of exhaustion written across my face.
“Your tray is unbalanced, Clara,” he said quietly, pointing a finger at the remaining silverware.
I looked down, blinking back the hot sting of tears I refused to let fall. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice rough. “You didn't have to do that.”
“I didn't like the smell,” Arthur replied simply.
May you like
He didn't offer comforting platitudes. He didn't ask me what Derek was to me or why he had been hunting me down. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy black business card embossed with a minimalist silver crest, and placed it gently on the edge of the service counter.
“Finish your shift,” Arthur said, turning back toward his corner booth. “When you clock out at midnight, don't walk out the front alley. Come to table four.”
