Chapter 3 - The Surreal Dinner and the Shadowy Protector
The Italian restaurant downtown was dimly lit, smelling of garlic, toasted pine nuts, and expensive red wine. Soft jazz played from overhead speakers, and couples murmured quietly across checkered tablecloths.
It should have been a romantic Friday night.
Instead, it felt like being interrogated in a luxury prison.
I sat across from Greg, who wore his customary beige cable-knit sweater and a polite, slightly nervous smile. He looked exactly like the actuary he was—clean-cut, predictable, and entirely unequipped for the reality swirling just outside the restaurant windows.
"You look stunning, Tessa," Greg said, reaching across the table to touch my hand. His fingers were cool and dry. "That dress... wow. You usually wear such conservative clothes, but this really suits you. It’s vibrant."
"Thank you, Greg," I managed to offer a tight, strained smile, keeping my eyes fixed on his face, terrified to look around.
Because sitting precisely one table away, facing us directly with a posture as rigid as a marine sniper, was Marcus—Leo’s six-foot-four, stone-faced head of security. Marcus wore an immaculate charcoal suit, a dark tie, and dark aviator sunglasses despite being indoors in a dimly lit dining room. He had ordered a single black coffee and sat there like an ominous gargoyle, his eyes locked onto the space between Greg and me.
"So," Greg continued, oblivious to the armed mobster glaring at the back of his head, "I was thinking, after dinner, maybe we could grab some gelato and walk down by the pier? The weather is clearing up."
My stomach tightened into a knot. 10:00 PM sharp. If Marcus’s stopwatch hit 10:01 and we weren't in the back of that town car, Leo’s entire tactical team would probably breach the gelateria with flashbangs.
"Actually, Greg, I’m a bit tired tonight," I said, offering a genuinely apologetic look. "It’s been a really long week at the estate, and... well, my boss is very strict about early mornings."
Greg’s face fell slightly, a flicker of disappointment crossing his neat features. "Oh. Right. The estate job. You never really talk about them, Tessa. Are they treating you okay? Sometimes I worry about you working out in those wealthy suburbs all by yourself. It feels so isolated."
"It’s fine," I lied smoothly, watching Marcus take a slow, deliberate sip of his black coffee. "They keep to themselves mostly."
"If you say so," Greg sighed, signaling the waiter for the check. "Just... you know, if you ever want to quit and find something normal in the city, my roommate’s firm is hiring administrative assistants. You wouldn't have to deal with demanding bosses anymore."
Demanding bosses. If Greg only knew that my demanding boss currently owned the mortgage on the building we were sitting in, the restaurant supply chain, and probably the entire block.
As Greg reached for his wallet to pay the bill, Marcus stood up from his table. The movement was so smooth and sudden that Greg flinched, dropping his credit card onto the floor.
Marcus didn't blink. He walked over, scooped the card off the wood flooring with two fingers, and placed it neatly beside Greg’s coffee cup.
"Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Davis," Marcus said in a deep, gravelly baritone that sounded like grinding tectonic plates. Then, he turned his dark glasses toward me. "It’s time to go, Miss Jenkins. The car is outside."
May you like
Greg blinked, looking between Marcus and me with wide, confused eyes. "Wait... do you know this guy, Tessa?"
I stood up quickly, grabbing my clutch, my face burning with humiliation and residual fury at Leo Santoro. "He’s... a family friend, Greg. I have to go. I’m sorry."
