Chapter 2 - The Back Alley Ledger
The heavy swing door of the employee locker room banged shut behind me, locking in the smell of stale coffee and damp aprons. My shift had ended in a blur of whispered reprimands and icy glares from the kitchen staff. The floor manager hadn't fired me—he couldn't, not after Roman Gallow’s explicit command—but he had reassigned me to the dish pit for the remainder of the week, a punishment disguised as administrative mercy. I unwound the compression bandage from my right wrist in the dim light of the tiny restroom, wincing as the swollen skin met the cool air. The bruised purple lines tracking along my tendon were getting darker, a permanent reminder of the delivery truck accident six months ago that the insurance company refused to cover.
My phone buzzed against the metal locker shelf. A text from an unknown number: *Service entrance. Ten minutes.*
Panic, cold and sharp, flared in my chest. I stared at the glowing screen for three long beats before pulling my white button-down tighter around my shoulders and pushing through the heavy metal exit into the alleyway behind the restaurant. The night air was biting, carrying the sharp scent of damp asphalt and exhaust fumes from the city street beyond.
A sleek, black town car idled against the curb, its tinted windows absorbing the sodium glow of the streetlamps. The rear door clicked open silently, revealing the polished leather interior and the unmistakable silhouette of Roman Gallow. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his silver watch catching the dim light as he tapped a fountain pen against a leather-bound notebook.
"You're late, Paige," he said without looking up.
"I had to finish scrubbing the fryers," I replied, my voice sharper than intended as I kept my distance from the open door. "If you're here to finish what the manager started, just say it and let me go home."
Roman looked up then, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. He closed the notebook with a soft, definitive snap. "If I wanted you fired, you wouldn't be standing in this alley arguing with me. Get in."
"I don't get into cars with strangers."
"I am hardly a stranger. I'm the man whose suit you ruined," he replied, a faint trace of dry amusement touching the corner of his mouth. "And you are the waitress whose wrist is failing her."
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My breath hitched. I glanced down at my bare wrist, instinctively hiding it behind my back. "My wrist is fine."
"Your wrist is torn at the extensor tendon," Roman countered smoothly, leaning across the leather seat. "It cost you your grip on a two-pound pitcher of water, and it will cost you your job by Friday if you keep pretending the pain isn't there. Get in the car, Paige. We need to talk about your debt."
