Chapter 2
Paige rubbed her forehead. Her wrist was throbbing mercilessly. She unbuttoned her cuff and examined the compression bandage. She needed a new one. She needed ibuprofen. She needed a different life. She was not stupid. She knew the stories about the Gallow family. They ran the port, the unions, and the underground gambling rings that catered to the city’s elite. Roman was the youngest son, the one who had taken control after his father and two older brothers were killed in a car bomb five years earlier. He had stabilized the business with terrifying, quiet efficiency. He was not a man who made quirky little deals with waitresses. Unless he was simply a creep. But the look in his eyes had not been predatory. It had looked like accounting. A cold, hard ledger of debts and credits. She had ruined $6,000 worth of property. Therefore, she owed him $6,000 worth of labor.
Friday arrived with the grim inevitability of a dental appointment. Paige wore black work slacks, comfortable black shoes, and a plain black button-down shirt. She tied her dark hair into a severe knot and left her apartment in the gritty south end of the city. It took two buses to reach the address. The property was a sprawling estate on cliffs overlooking the ocean, separated from the highway by ten-foot iron gates and a thick perimeter of old-growth pine trees. Paige approached a heavy steel call box and pressed the button. "Name?" The voice came through static. "Paige. I’m supposed to be here." The gate clicked and swung inward on silent hinges. She followed the winding driveway. The house was massive, but it was not the gaudy collection of statues and fountains she had expected from mafia money. It was modern brutalist architecture constructed from concrete, glass, and dark wood. It looked like a fortress disguised as an Architectural Digest feature.
Before she reached the front steps, the heavy oak door opened. The guard from the restaurant stood there. The one with the flattened nose. "Arms up." Paige obeyed. He patted her down with professional, impersonal efficiency, checking her waist and ankles. "I’m Luca. Don’t talk to the guests. Don’t look at the cards on the table. You pour the drinks, clear the empty glasses, and serve the food. If you hear something you shouldn’t, pretend you didn’t understand. Clear glasses. Don’t listen." "Got it." Luca gave her a sideways look. The faintest hint of a smirk touched his scarred mouth. "In here." He led her through a cavernous, sparsely furnished hallway and opened a pair of double doors.
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Blue cigar smoke hazed the room. A heavy oak table dominated the center beneath a low-hanging chandelier. Five men sat around it, with black-and-gold chips stacked in uneven piles before them. Roman sat at the head. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing faded ink and scars. When Paige entered, he looked up. His expression did not change. He gave her a slight nod. Paige moved to the wet bar in the corner. It contained bottles that cost more than her car. Luca handed her a silver tray and a small, heavy crystal glass. "Macallan 25. Neat. Bring it to Donovan." He indicated a heavyset, red-faced man sweating profusely on the left side of the table. Paige poured the amber liquor, placed it on the tray, and approached. She slipped into the space behind Donovan and lowered the tray. "Your drink, sir."
Donovan did not look at her. He snatched the glass and struck its edge against the tray. Scotch spilled across his fingers. "Watch it, sweetheart." "Apologies." Paige stepped back and wiped the tray. For the next hour, she stood in the corner. Her feet hurt. Her wrist ached. She watched the game. It was not friendly. Tension hung thickly in the smoke-filled room, and Donovan was losing badly. Chips steadily migrated across the green felt toward Roman. Roman played with mechanical precision. He did not smile. He did not gloat. He simply bet, called, and took the money. "I need another," Donovan barked, slamming his empty glass down. Paige approached and picked it up. "Same again?" Donovan finally turned toward her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled of sour sweat and expensive cologne. "Are you deaf? I said I need another." He reached out and grabbed her right wrist. The pressure landed directly on the bruised, inflamed tendon. Paige gasped. Her knees nearly buckled under the sudden, blinding spike of pain. She tried to pull away, but Donovan’s grip tightened. "Hey," he slurred, dragging her closer. "I’m talking to you." "Let go of me." She did not scream. She did not plead. Her voice was flat, hard, and exhausted. "I just poured the Scotch. Let go of my arm." Donovan scoffed. "Feisty little waitress. Where do you find her, Roman?" "Donovan." Roman did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
