Chapter 1: The Weight of the Linen
The chandeliers above the dining room hummed with a low, amber warmth, casting long, bruised shadows across the dark wood paneling. Around me, the low murmur of diners rose and fell like a tide against the white tablecloths, but the sound didn't reach the center of my chest. My arms burned. My collar was damp with sweat where Leo had pressed his face against me, sobbing until his tiny frame shook in my grip.
"Shh, it's okay," I whispered, the words scraping against a throat tight with exhaustion. I bounced gently on the balls of my feet, right beside table four, where the silver cutlery lay untouched and the armed guards near the service doors stared with flat, unblinking eyes.
Leo clutched the cream knit sweater he wore, his small fingers tangling in the wool as another wail tore out of him. His face was red, streaked with salt tears and snot.
"You're okay," I murmured again, pressing my cheek against his soft, damp hair. The kitchen doors swung open behind me, smelling of burnt garlic and expensive steak, but the noise of the back-of-house only seemed to aggravate the boy's panic. He curled tighter into my shoulder, his breathing hitching in ragged gasps.
Across the room, at the corner booth reserved for men who didn't give names, a heavy silence hung over the table.
A stern man with tattooed hands rested his fingers lightly on a crystal glass of whiskey, the ice cubes catching the amber light of the overhead fixture. Next to the glass sat thick stacks of bound dollar bills, banded in neat paper wrappers, resting squarely on the crisp white linen. He didn't look away from me. His black suit was sharp, tailored close to his broad shoulders, and his white dress shirt collar remained crisp despite the late hour.
He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The air around his table seemed to drop ten degrees.
Leo let out one final, ragged hiccup, his little body going suddenly heavy against my chest. His small head dropped sideways, resting completely against my collarbone, his breathing deepening into the slow, rhythmic cadence of sudden exhaustion. His eyelids fluttered once and stayed shut, dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks.
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The tattooed boss watched the boy settle. His dark eyes flicked up to mine, holding my gaze with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. He lifted his glass, took a slow sip of amber liquid, and then slid one of the paper-wrapped stacks of bills an inch across the table toward the aisle.
The message was clear, heavy, and inescapable. I adjusted Leo's weight in my arms, my boots sticking slightly to the polished floorboards, and began the long walk back toward the kitchen doors.
