Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Guest
A tall man in an unbuttoned designer suit was pushing his way past the panicking hostesses. His hair was slicked back, his cheeks flushed with alcohol, and his eyes wild with erratic energy.
It was Julian Vance.
Son of real estate mogul Arthur Vance, Julian was part of the city’s untouchable elite—the kind of young heir who believed laws were merely suggestions meant for people without trust funds.
“I don't give a damn about your reservation policy!” Julian shouted, shoving a trembling busser aside. “My father dines here every Tuesday! Tell Moretti I want a word!”
The entire dining room froze. Conversations died mid-sentence. Silverware clattered against plates as diners turned away, pretending not to watch the impending trainwreck.
Paul the manager materialized from nowhere, looking like he was about to burst into tears. “Mr. Vance, please! The south alcove is completely private tonight. You cannot go back there—security will—"
“Security?” Julian laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He yanked a silver flask from his jacket pocket and took a swig. “Those thugs couldn't stop a stiff breeze. Moretti thinks he owns the ports, but my family owns half the city council that signs his permits.”
At the south alcove table, Roman Moretti hadn't even stood up.
He didn't need to.
His bodyguards moved with terrifying synchronicity, stepping out of the alcove to form an impenetrable wall across the archway. The largest of the four, a man with a jagged scar running down his neck, planted his boots and stared down at Julian with dead, unblinking eyes.
Julian stopped dead in his tracks, finally registering the wall of muscle blocking his path. But alcohol and desperate arrogance made a dangerous cocktail. He puffed out his chest, trying to project a confidence he clearly didn't feel.
“Tell Roman that Arthur Vance’s son is here to talk business,” Julian barked, trying to crane his neck to see past the bodyguards.
Beatatrice flinched at the sudden shouting. She looked up, her eyes wide with alarm, her hands instinctively rising to grasp the edge of the tablecloth.
Roman saw her reaction.
The temperature in the alcove seemed to drop ten degrees. The relaxed, almost conversational posture vanished, replaced by an absolute, chilling stillness.
Roman slowly stood up.
He adjusted his cuffs with agonizing slowness, smoothed the front of his charcoal jacket, and stepped out from the alcove, walking past his bodyguards until he was standing face-to-face with Julian Vance.
Julian was tall, but Roman towered over him, possessing a dense, physical authority that made the younger man involuntarily take a half-step back.
“You’re shouting in a restaurant, Julian,” Roman said, his voice deceptively calm. “And you’re disturbing my mother.”
Julian swallowed hard, his bravado cracking at the edges. “My... my father said you were backing out of the waterfront development deal. He wants to know why you’re cutting us out.”
“Your father sends an intoxicated, uninvited boy to my dinner table to ask about business?” Roman tilt his head, a cold smirk touching his lips. “Tell Arthur that if he wants to talk to me, he can make an appointment at my office during business hours like a professional. Or better yet, he can save his breath, because the deal is dead.”
“Dead?” Julian’s face flushed a furious red. “You can’t just kill a ten-million-dollar contract! My family made you! My father gave you your first—"
Julian didn't finish the sentence.
In a blur of motion too fast for the eye to comfortably track, Roman’s hand shot out, grabbing Julian by the silk tie and yanking him forward so hard the younger man’s heels left the floor.
The entire dining room sucked in a collective breath.
Roman leaned in close, his voice dropping into a register so low and venomous that only Julian—and Harper, standing a few feet away—could hear it.
“Your father gave me nothing,” Roman whispered, his dark eyes boring straight into Julian’s terrified soul. “I took what I wanted, and I allowed him to watch. If you ever raise your voice in a room where my mother is breathing again, I will not cut you out of a contract, Julian. I will cut you out of the city entirely. Do we understand each other?”
Julian whimpered, frantically nodding his head, his hands clawing uselessly at Roman’s grip.
Roman shoved him backward. Julian stumbled over a decorative planter, crashing hard onto the hardwood floor and sending dirt spilling across his expensive shoes.
“Get him out of my sight,” Roman commanded.
Two bodyguards hoisted Julian up by his arms like a sack of garbage and dragged him toward the exit, his feet scrambling uselessly against the floor.
Roman exhaled a slow, controlled breath, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension. He turned back toward the alcove, preparing to apologize to his mother.
When he caught sight of Harper, however, he stopped.
Harper was standing beside the service station, her face pale, her hands gripping her tray so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
She wasn't looking at Roman with fear, the way everyone else in the room did.
She was looking at him with a cold, piercing anger that took him completely by surprise.
“Something funny, waitress?” Roman asked, his voice narrowing as he stepped toward her.
Harper didn't drop her gaze. She held her ground, looking straight into the eyes of a man who terrified a city.
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“You missed a spot on your lapel,” Harper said evenly, her voice steady as a rock. “When you throw out trash, it tends to leave a mess.”
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