Chapter 2 - The Manager’s Shadow
The words hung in the air, heavier than the smoke and expensive leather. Your manager. He was watching you before you spoke.
My breath hitched. The room, which had felt suffocatingly small a moment ago, suddenly stretched into an infinite, terrifying vacuum. I stared at the mafia boss—Dante Vance. That was his name, though people usually just whispered it. He didn’t blink. His dark, impenetrable eyes pinned me to the floor like a specimen under a microscope.
"Mr. Vance," I managed to choke out, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steady it. "I don't know what you're talking about. Greg just runs the floor. He assigns sections, handles the inventory..."
"Greg doesn't just manage floor staff," Dante interrupted, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in my chest. He took another step closer, the scent of expensive bourbon and rain rolling off his tailored suit. "Greg is a retired auditor for the municipal docks. A man who hasn't worked a legitimate register in ten years. Yet, tonight, he placed you—a girl with a scarred accent and a knack for high-tier German underworld slang—in the private VIP room during a high-stakes continental negotiation."
My mind raced back to earlier that evening. Greg had cornered me in the breakroom just before the doors opened. “Take the tray to the corner booth, Blair. Don't look at them, don't listen to them, just pour the wine.” He had pushed me out there with an urgency that had felt weirdly forced. At the time, I brushed it off as regular restaurant chaos. Now, the pieces slammed together with sickening clarity.
"He set me up," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
"Or," Dante murmured, his gaze narrowing as he leaned down slightly, studying the micro-expressions on my face, "he was paid to see if you would crack. Which means someone knew you understood Berlin dialect before you even stepped through those double doors."
Panic clawed at my throat. If Greg was watching, where was he now?
As if summoned by the thought, a heavy thud echoed from the hallway outside the private dining room. Dante didn't flinch. He flicked a finger toward his remaining bodyguard—a hulking, silent shadow named Marcus. Marcus drew his sidearm with practiced ease and moved toward the heavy mahogany door, kicking it open with a decisive thud.
The hallway was empty, save for a silver tray resting on a service cart. And lying right beside it was Greg’s gold-plated pocket watch, ticking faintly against the marble floor. The chain had been violently ripped. Greg wasn't just watching; he had been liquidated the moment the deal went sideways. A loose end tied up before he could talk.
"Looks like your manager's employment was terminated early," Marcus grunted, stepping back into the room.
May you like
Dante looked down at me, kneeling on the spilled wine, my hands still stained red. There was no pity in his expression, only a chilling, calculated assessment. He extended a leather-gloved hand. Not to help me up, but to demand an answer.
"You have ten seconds to tell me why a dead man and a Frankfurt ghost are conspiring in my restaurant, Blair," Dante said softly. "Choose your next words carefully. They will determine whether you leave this room breathing."
