Chapter 5 - THE POCKET WATCH
Marcus Vance’s polite, corporate smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
He hadn’t expected defiance. In his world, people in cheap black uniforms and faded aprons broke the moment a federal badge was flashed.
“You’re making a very expensive mistake, young lady,” Vance said, taking two slow steps toward the alcove.
“She’s not making any mistake,” Roman said. His voice was dangerously calm, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. “Because that watch isn't in your jurisdiction, Marcus. It’s inside my restaurant. Which means it’s under my roof.”
“Are you obstructing a federal officer, Roman?” Vance sneered, his hand hovering near his hip.
“I’m expressing hospitality,” Roman replied. He didn't blink. “And in my restaurants, we don’t let federal thugs harass our staff over thirty-year-old ghost stories.”
Vance’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the federal agents flanking him, then back at Roman’s armed security team forming a wall around the alcove. A shootout in a Michelin-starred restaurant in front of federal inspectors and local police was a headline even Roman Moretti preferred to avoid.
“This isn't over, Harper,” Vance said, his voice dropping into a harsh undertone. “Your father thought he could outsmart the port authority in ’92, and the river kept his secret. It can keep yours too.”
With a sharp nod to his men, Vance turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room, the heavy brass doors swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.
The moment the doors latched, the tension in the alcove didn't dissipate—it coiled tighter.
Beatatrice let out a shaky breath, signing rapidly to Roman: He’s desperate. If Vance came here himself, it means the 412-B locker hasn't been opened yet.
Roman looked down at the silver pocket watch resting on the white linen next to the yellow ticket stub.
He picked it up, his thumb brushing over the engraved crossed keys on the silver case.
“Your father didn't just carry a watch, Harper,” Roman said quietly. “He carried a key.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Roman pressed a small hidden notch on the stem of the pocket watch.
With a soft click, the heavy silver back popped open.
Inside, where the watch mechanism should have been ticking away the seconds, lay a tiny, razor-thin brass key stamped with the exact same numbers as the ticket: 412-B.
Beatatrice gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
I stared at the key. My father had carried that watch every single day of my childhood. He used to let me hold it when I had earaches, telling me it was just a broken heirloom from his grandfather.
“Why did he hide that inside his watch?” I whispered.
“Because he knew Vance was hunting him,” Roman said. He slipped the watch and the key into his inner coat pocket. “And now Vance knows you have it.”
Paul the manager crept out from the kitchen, wringing his hands. “Mr. Moretti... do you need anything else? Should I call a cab for Harper?”
Roman turned his cold, dark gaze onto the manager.
“Harper isn't taking a cab,” Roman said. “She’s quitting.”
“Quitting?” Paul squeaked. “Sir, her shift doesn’t end until midnight—”
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“Her shift ended the moment a federal agent threatened her over my mother’s table,” Roman cut him off. He looked at me. “Get your coat. You’re coming with us.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, to tell him I didn't need a mob boss’s protection—when the front restaurant windows suddenly exploded inward with a deafening crash.
