Chapter 6 - The Alleyway Shadow
The damp brick of the alley pressed hard against Harper’s spine, cold enough to bite right through her worn denim jacket. Roman Moretti stood inches away, his dark coat brushing her knees, his tall frame cutting off the sickly yellow light of the streetlamp overhead.
Harper’s chest heaved, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she stared up at him through the gloom. The chaotic commotion from the dock yards seemed a million miles away.
“Are you out of your mind?” Harper hissed, her voice vibrating with a mixture of shock and suppressed fury. She shoved against his chest with both hands, but he didn't budge an inch. “You dragged me into an alleyway like a common mugger! Let me go, Mr. Moretti!”
“Keep your voice down,” Roman whispered, his dark eyes scanning the mouth of the alley before returning to her face. His expression was completely devoid of playfulness now. It was chiseled from stone, tight with a tension that suggested whatever emergency had called him away from the restaurant had only intensified.
“I am not an employee on your clock anymore, and I certainly am not your hostage,” Harper retorted, her chin lifting defiantly even as her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “If you wanted to fire me, you could have texted Paul. What kind of mob-boss cliché is dragging waitresses into dark corners?”
A slow, humorless smirk touched the corner of Roman’s mouth, though his eyes remained as cold as obsidian. “If I wanted to fire you, Harper, I would have bought Laura and turned it into a parking lot, exactly like I promised. You’re not here because you’re fired. You’re here because someone at the dock yards didn’t just breach my perimeter—they left a calling card specifically meant for you.”
Harper froze. The anger evaporated, replaced instantly by a chilling wave of dread. “Me? What are you talking about? I don't know anything about your docks, or your business, or whatever war you’re fighting.”
“Don't you?” Roman reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, his fingers sliding out a small, crinkled square of paper. He held it up so the faint light caught it. “This was pinned to the security gate of Pier 44 ten minutes after I left the restaurant. It was wrapped around a silver button identical to the ones on your back waiter uniform.”
Harper stared at the paper. Even in the dim light, she recognized the sloppy, jagged handwriting immediately. It was a receipt torn from a block, scrawled with a single name and a local address across town.
142 Miller Street. Tell the girl her brother is still waiting.
The breath rushed out of Harper’s lungs as if she had been punched in the stomach. Leo. Her brother’s name—a name she hadn't spoken out loud since the day they buried him three years ago—echoed in her ears like a curse.
“That’s impossible,” Harper choked out, her fingers flying to her mouth as the world seemed to tilt dangerously on its axis. “Leo is dead. I watched him die. I paid for the hospital bills. I went to his funeral.”
Roman watched her closely, his sharp gaze dissecting every micro-expression on her pale face. The arrogant billionaire and terrifying underworld figure melted away, leaving only a dangerous predator recognizing another trapped animal.
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“People who die in hospitals usually leave a body behind, Harper,” Roman said softly, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped even closer, his body shielding her entirely from the street. “The note at the pier wasn't a warning about my docks. It was an invitation for you. And whoever sent it is waiting for us right now.”
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