Chapter 2 - The Price of a Parasite
The phone buzzed again, a sharp, angry vibration that seemed to mock the heavy silence of Booth Four.
My fingers hovered over my apron pocket. Every instinct told me to ignore it, to leave it buried beneath pens, a notepad, and a crumpled receipt. But Roman Gallagher was watching me with an intensity that felt less like a threat and more like a dissection. He wanted to see how much pressure it took before I finally cracked.
"Go ahead," Roman murmured, taking a slow sip of his bourbon. "If you don't answer, he'll likely show up here. And my men don't particularly enjoy dealing with amateurs who can't handle their liquor or their lives."
I pulled the phone out. The screen lit up my face with a harsh, blue glare.
David: Seriously? You're ignoring me now? I need you to swing by the ATM before you come home. My card got declined at the gas station and I look like an idiot. Hurry up.
A hot spike of humiliation mixed with pure exhaustion flared in my chest. For two years, I had paid for his groceries, his gym memberships, his "entrepreneurial" ventures that never materialized, and the gas that fueled his endless excuses. And here I was, trapped in a VIP booth with a literal crime boss, being scolded for not funding a pack of cigarettes fast enough.
I hit the power button to silence the screen, my hand shaking slightly.
When I looked up, Roman’s expression had shifted. The amused, predatory smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, flat assessment.
"Let me guess," Roman said, his voice dangerously low. "He needs cash. His card didn't work. And you're expected to fix it before you walk through the door."
"It's none of your concern," I bit out, sliding the phone back into my apron.
"It becomes my concern when my staff is distracted by a nervous waitress who looks like she’s carrying the weight of a sinking ship," Roman replied evenly. He closed the leather-bound ledger with a sharp snap that made the bodyguards shift. "How much does he owe you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your boyfriend. The parasite. How much has he drained out of you over the last year?"
"I am not discussing my personal life with a stranger—"
"A stranger who just saved you from a very bad night," Roman interrupted, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "Nora, look around you. I run half the logistics, real estate, and import channels in this city. Do you really think a twenty-something slacker with a failing online sneaker business and a habit of text-harassment is a mystery to me?"
My breath hitched. "You know David?"
"I know his type," Roman corrected. "Types like him borrow from local bookies when the credit cards max out. They think they can outrun interest rates with sports betting and crypto schemes. Does he owe money to people like me, Nora? Because if he does, and he’s using your tips to pay the vig, that makes you a liability to my establishments."
The blood drained from my face. The club around us suddenly felt freezing. All this time, I thought I was just dealing with a lazy, selfish boyfriend who didn't appreciate the sacrifices I made. The terrifying possibility that David had dragged us both into something far darker hadn't even crossed my mind—or perhaps I had been too tired to let myself see it.
"He... he bets on games," I stammered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "He says it's just fantasy leagues, but sometimes he gets stressed about... invoices."
"Invoices," Roman repeated, a dry, humorless sound escaping his lips. He signaled his security chief with a brief nod. The massive man stepped closer, pulling a small tablet from his jacket.
"Run a check," Roman instructed quietly. "David Miller. Former community college dropout, current tenant of a downtown loft paid for by a girl working seventy hours a week."
"No—wait!" I reached across the table, my hand instinctively catching Roman's sleeve. The fabric was heavy wool, expensive and tailored. I let go immediately, pulling back as if I’d been burned. "Don't ruin his life. He's just... he's stupid, he's not a criminal."
"Stupid is more dangerous than criminal, Nora," Roman said, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an unsettling warmth that anchored me in place. "Criminals have rules. Stupid people just leave bodies—and debts—for everyone else to clean up."
The security chief tapped rapidly on his tablet, frowned, and leaned down to whisper something into Roman's ear.
As Roman listened, his jaw tightened. The casual, relaxed posture vanished entirely, replaced by a stillness that was infinitely more terrifying than any outburst of anger.
He looked back at me, and for the first time, there was no mockery in his eyes. Just a cold, hard realization.
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"Well, Nora," Roman said softly, standing up from the booth. "It turns out your boyfriend isn't just a parasite. He's been using your name as collateral."
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