Chapter 2: Behind The Paneled Doors
The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind us, cutting off the low murmur of the dining room. The hallway was narrower, lit by recessed sconces that cast a softer, golden hue against the wainscoting. I clutched the boy tighter against my shoulder. He felt impossibly light, his breathing shallow now that the adrenaline of his panic attack was fading into sheer exhaustion.
"You shouldn't have done that," a voice rasped from the shadows near the service lift.
It was Vance’s head of security, a broad-shouldered man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow. He took a half-step forward, his hand heavy on his belt. "Boss doesn't like interruptions. Especially from the waitstaff."
"He was suffocating," I said, my voice dropping an octave to keep from waking the child. "If you call that management, your priorities are broken."
Before the guard could step closer, the heavy double doors behind him pushed open. Julian Vance stood there, his suit jacket unbuttoned, the tattoos on his hands stark against his pale cuffs. He didn't look angry; he looked curious, which was somehow infinitely more dangerous.
"Let her be, Marcus," Vance said, his voice flat, carrying the natural authority of a man accustomed to silence falling the second he spoke. Marcus grunted, stepping back into the gloom of the corridor.
Vance looked at me, then down at the boy's fingers curled into the fabric of my white shirt. "His name is Leo. He hasn't spoken since his parents' car went off the coastal highway three weeks ago."
"Because no one's giving him a safe place to land," I replied, holding my ground. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, born of a stubbornness I thought I'd buried years ago when I left my old life behind to fold napkins and pour wine in this city.
Vance stepped closer, the scent of amber and dry tobacco washing over me. "And you think waiting tables qualifies you as a grief counselor?"
"I think watching a room full of armed men try to bribe a grieving toddler with cash proves you're all entirely out of your depth."
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Vance's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped beneath his skin. For a second, I thought he was going to signal Marcus to throw me out into the alley. Instead, he reached out, his tattooed fingers brushing lightly against Leo's tangled brown hair—a motion so startlingly tender it nearly broke the tension.
"The breakroom is down the hall," Vance said quietly, withdrawing his hand. "Bring him inside. We need to talk."
