Chapter 2 - The Midnight Shift
The remaining hour of the dinner passed in an agonizing crawl. Elena stood by the sideboard, her hands clasped in front of her, performing the duties of an invisible observer while her mind raced through every worst-case scenario. She thought of Sonia, her beautiful little girl with the wild curly hair, probably snoring softly beneath Mrs. Chen’s floral blanket. If anything happened to Elena tonight, Sonia would be alone in a city that devoured the unprotected.
Thomas Brennan barely spoke for the rest of the meal. He took small, mechanical bites of his food, his eyes darting repeatedly toward Elena, then toward Marco’s untouched wine glass. Marco didn't take another sip of the Barolo. Instead, he drank the sparkling water Elena had poured for him, his expression an unreadable mask of absolute authority.
When the clock on the wall struck eleven, Vincent stood up, stretching his broad shoulders. “Well, Marco, it’s a long drive back to Long Island, and the rain isn't letting up. We’ll look into those logistics errors by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Vincent,” Marco said, rising to shake his hand. “Drive safely.”
Thomas stood up quickly, eager to escape. “I’ll head out too, Marco. Let me know when you want to get that suit replaced. My tailor on Madison owes me a favor.”
“I’ll do that, Thomas,” Marco said, his voice entirely smooth. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
As the men filed out of the private room, Thomas intentionally lingered for a split second behind the others. He turned his head toward Elena, his eyes narrowing into a cold, lethal promise that made the hairs on her arms stand up. I know what you did, his gaze said, and you won't survive the night.
Once the room was empty, the heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving only Elena and Marco Valentine inside.
Elena immediately moved toward the table to begin clearing the plates, her hands finally beginning to shake. She reached for the poisoned glass of Barolo, but before her fingers could touch the stem, Marco’s hand shot out, wrapping firmly around her wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was unyielding, like an iron band.
“Don’t touch it,” he murmured.
Elena looked down at him, her breath hitching. “Mr. Valentine, I need to clean the table.”
“You didn’t trip, Elena,” Marco said, using her name for the first time. He read it off the small silver badge pinned to her vest. He let go of her wrist, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes studying her face with an intensity that made her feel completely transparent. “You’ve been serving this table for three hours. Your movement is precise. You don’t drop glasses unless you want to.”
Elena swallowed hard, her throat dry. “The floor was slick from the rain outside, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me. It offends my intelligence,” Marco said, his tone dropping an octave. He picked up a clean spoon from the table, dipped the tip into the glass of Barolo, and brought it close to his nose. He sniffed it, his brow furrowing slightly. “Almonds. Very faint. Cyanide or a derivative of hemlock. If I had taken a full swallow, I’d be on the floor before Vincent could call an ambulance.”
Elena felt the room spin. Hearing it aloud made the danger real in a way that her thoughts hadn't fully captured.
“Why did you do it?” Marco asked, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table. “You don't know me. To you, I’m just another man in an expensive suit who can make people disappear. You could have walked out of the room, let me drink it, and no one would have ever blamed the waitress.”
“Because a little boy shouldn't lose his father over a corporate territory dispute,” Elena said before she could stop herself.
Marco’s expression changed for a fraction of a second—a flicker of surprise crossing his features before the stone mask returned. “I don't have a son.”
“But you are someone's son,” Elena said, her voice softening. “And I have a daughter. I know what it’s like to imagine leaving her alone in this world. I couldn't just stand there and watch a murder happen when I had the power to stop it with a glass of water.”
Marco stared at her for a long, silent moment. The rain continued to lash against the windowpanes, a steady, rhythmic background to the life-altering conversation happening inside Table One. Slowly, Marco reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. He pressed a single button.
“Frank,” Marco said into the receiver. “Thomas Brennan just left the building. He’s driving the silver Mercedes. Pick him up. Bring him to the warehouse on 12th. Don’t damage the car. I want him alive.”
He hung up, then turned his attention back to Elena. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound wallet. He extracted a stack of hundred-dollar bills—easily several thousand dollars—and placed them on the damp tablecloth.
“This is for the rent you’re worried about,” Marco said. “And for the nursing school tuition.”
May you like
Elena gasped, stepping back. “How do you know about that?”
“I know everything that happens in my city, Elena,” Marco said, standing up and smoothing his jacket. “And right now, what I know is that Thomas Brennan saw you look at him. He’s a desperate man, and desperate men eliminate witnesses. You and your daughter aren't safe in Queens tonight.”
