Chapter 2 - Closing Time in the Red Booth
The heavy oak doors of the lounge were locked, the neon "Open" sign turned off, leaving only the warm wall lamps to cast long, golden shadows across the room. The shattered whiskey bottle and broken glass had been swept into a dustpan minutes ago, but the tension of the wager still hung in the air like ozone after a thunderstorm.
Vincent remained seated in the deep red leather booth, nursing a fresh glass of bourbon. Dominic had been sent out to check the rear alley, leaving just the two of us in the quiet space. I stood behind the mahogany bar, wiping down the polished surface with a dry towel, though my eyes kept drifting back to Vincent. He hadn't touched the money clip on the table yet. It sat there between us like a silent challenge.
"You didn't take the swing," Vincent noted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and the sleeves of his black button-down shirt were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the rhythmic ticking of his wristwatch. "I left my guard wide open for three seconds after Dominic cleared out."
"I don't fight for parlor tricks," I replied, my voice carrying clearly across the empty lounge. I tossed the towel onto the stainless-steel sink and walked out from behind the bar, my black pants making no sound on the carpet as I approached his booth.
"It wasn't a trick, Cassidy," Vincent said, using my first name with a casual familiarity that made my spine stiffen. "It was an audit. People who move the way you moved don't end up pouring drinks in an upscale lounge downtown unless they're hiding from something—or someone."
I stopped a yard away from the red leather seating, keeping my expression neutral. "I'm a bartender. My shifts end at two in the morning, and I go home. That's the extent of my biography."
"A bartender who blocks a professional enforcer's cross-body grab and counters with a textbook liver punch," Vincent countered, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "I've backed fighters for a decade. I know the stance. I know the posture when the adrenaline hits." He pointed to the money clip. "Take it. Or sit down and talk to me."
"I don't need your charity, Mr. Coletti," I said, my jaw tightening.
May you like
"It's not charity. It's an investment in curiosity." Vincent stood up, towering over me by several inches, yet he kept his hands relaxed at his sides, respecting the invisible boundary I had drawn. "The gym across town is open at dawn. No cameras, no crowd. Just a ring and a timer. Show me what you've got."
I looked at the thick envelope he slid across the scarred wooden table. It represented three months of bartending tips. But more than that, it represented a door opening back into a world I had sworn I would never touch again.
