Chapter 2 - The Weight of the Apron
The surrounding diners had finally stopped pretending not to listen. The hum of conversation in Maison Étoile had dropped to zero, leaving only the soft, ambient jazz playing over the hidden speakers.
“My name is Casey Miller,” I said, keeping my posture straight, my black apron smoothing against my skirt. “And right now, I am three hundred dollars short on my mother’s dialysis payment for next week, which means I have very little patience for people who insult my grammar while trying to commit international fraud on a napkin.”
A sharp, incredulous breath escaped the man in the cashmere coat at the neighboring table.
Victoria trembled, her hands gripping the edge of the velvet booth so hard her knuckles turned translucent. “Dominic! Do something! Have her thrown out! Have her—!”
“Shut up, Victoria,” Dominic said. It wasn't a shout. It was a command so absolute that his wife snapped her mouth shut instantly, staring at him in sheer terror.
Dominic rested his elbows on the table, steepling his large, calloused fingers. He studied me the way an appraiser studies a rare, dangerous artifact found in a dusty attic.
“You’re a doctoral student,” Dominic stated, not as a question, but as a deduction he had just pieced together from my diction, my posture, and the specific legal terminology I had dropped like an anchor. “Columbia University. International law and linguistic treaties.”
“History and ambiguity,” I corrected smoothly. “Languages are tricky things, Mr. Russo. One misplaced preposition in a postwar treaty can turn a legitimate maritime investment into an interstate criminal conspiracy. Or, in your case, give the Justice Department a silver platter to tear down your entire import empire.”
Dominic let out a slow, heavy breath. A strange, twisted ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“You have a lot of nerve standing at my table telling me my legal team is incompetent,” Dominic said softly.
“Your legal team isn't incompetent,” I replied, looking down at the document. “They’re arrogant. They assumed no one outside the boardroom would ever read the unredacted footnotes of an annex drafted seventy years ago. They thought a girl in a black apron was just part of the furniture.”
“And what do you want, Miss Miller?” Dominic asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. “An apology from my wife?”
Victoria gasped, her eyes flying wide. “Dominic, you can't possibly—”
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“An apology wouldn't cover my mother’s medical bills,” I interrupted, looking straight into the mafia boss’s unblinking gaze. “And it certainly wouldn't fix the glaring loophole in your multi-million-dollar contract. But a consultation fee? That’s an entirely different conversation.”
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