Chapter 11 - Lines Drawn in the Dark
The warm wall lamps cast elongated, amber shadows across the lounge floor as closing time came and went. The last patrons had filtered out hours ago, leaving the room silent save for the faint, steady drone of the HVAC system. I was sitting alone in a red leather booth near the back, nursing a glass of un-iced whiskey, staring absently at the amber liquid as I replayed Marcus's threats in my mind. The door to the private back office clicked open, and Vincent stepped out, wearing his signature black vest and crisp shirt, his wristwatch catching the dim light as he rolled up his sleeves.
He noticed my posture immediately—the stiff shoulders, the guarded look in my eyes—and stopped halfway across the floor. Vincent walked over, pulling out the opposite seat and sitting down without breaking his steady gaze.
"You've been distracted all evening, Cassidy," Vincent said quietly, his voice carrying that calm, authoritative weight that usually grounded me. "And it's not because of the inventory audit."
I took a slow breath, swirling the whiskey in my glass before setting it down on the wooden table. "My past just walked through the front door today," I said, looking straight into his dark eyes. "Marcus. The manager from the gym in Queens who tried to force me to take dives."
Vincent's expression didn't show shock, only a cold, sharpening focus. He leaned back against the red leather, resting his arm along the top of the booth. "He tracked you here."
"He wants a piece of whatever he thinks I have now," I explained, bitterness sharp in my throat. "He thinks my history is leverage against you, Vincent. He threatened to tell you everything about why I left if I didn't pay him off."
A slow, dangerous smile touched the corners of Vincent's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely flat. "And what did you tell him?"
"I told him nothing," I replied firmly. "But he's coming back tomorrow afternoon. And he's not the kind of man to walk away empty-handed without causing collateral damage."
Vincent reached across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against my wrist in a gesture that offered both grounding and absolute solidarity. "Then we give him exactly what he's asking for—a meeting," Vincent said softly. "Only it won't be on his terms, and it certainly won't involve you paying a dime to ghosts who have no power here."
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"He has associates, Vincent. It could get messy in the district," I warned, though a fierce relief washed through me at his immediate, unhesitating support.
"Let them come," Vincent answered, standing up from the booth and extending a hand to help me up. "In this lounge, we write the rules. And nobody threatens the people who keep my house running."
