Chapter 6 - The Weight of the Black Card
The embossed silver crest on Arthur Moretti’s black business card caught the amber glow of the Onyx Room chandeliers, casting a cool, metallic reflection against my thumb.
I stared at it for three long seconds after he walked away, my mind spinning through a dozen different warnings. Working-class instincts screamed at me to drop it, to run out the back service exit right now, to pack my two suitcases and find a new city before Derek could circle back with reinforcements. But the memory of Derek’s grip on my arm—and the effortless, terrifying finality with which Arthur’s guards had discarded him—anchored my boots to the floor.
“Clara! Stop daydreaming, table twelve needs their wine list refreshed!” Rick barked from behind the bar, snapping me back to the chaotic reality of the dinner rush.
“Coming,” I muttered, sliding the card into the hidden zipper pocket of my apron.
The rest of my shift dragged like heavy lead. Every time the heavy kitchen doors swung open, my stomach lurched, half-expecting Derek to crawl back through with a shattered wrist and murder in his eyes. But the rest of the night passed in a blur of clinking glasses, demanding patrons, and polite smiles.
May you like
When midnight finally struck, the jazz quartet packed up their instruments, the lights in the main dining room dimmed to a low, amber simmer, and the remaining patrons filtered out into the cool autumn night.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I untied my apron, folded it neatly, and placed it inside my locker. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, I stepped out into the main dining area and walked toward table four.
