Chapter 2 - The Bruised Wrist and the Mafia Boss’s GazeSilence descended instantly upon the private dining room. The councilman muttered a curse, pulling his Italian leather shoes back from the spreading puddle of amber liquid. The attorney frowned, glaring up at Chloe with undisguised contempt.
Chloe froze, her breath trapped in her chest. She immediately dropped to her knees on the hard marble, her fingers scrambling to pick up the razor-sharp fragments of crystal. In her haste and panic, her left sleeve pulled back slightly.
The white fabric rode up just an inch, exposing the skin of her left wrist.
It wasn't a clean scratch. It was a constellation of deep, overlapping purple and black bruises—thick thumb-prints and finger-marks shaped like a vice grip, stark and unmistakable against her pale skin.
Across the table, Elias Russo shifted.
Up until that exact second, Elias had not looked at her once. He had treated her like part of the restaurant's mahogany paneling or the ambient lighting. But now, his dark eyes dropped downward, tracking the movement of her hands, locking entirely onto the brutal bruises wrapping around her slender wrist.
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. The councilman opened his mouth to berate her for clumsiness, but the words died in his throat when he noticed where Elias was looking.
Elias did not yell. He did not slam his fist on the table. He simply raised his hand, gesturing for the two panicked men beside him to shut their mouths.
“Pick up the glass later,” Elias said. His voice was low, smooth, and possessed a quiet gravity that commanded absolute obedience.
Chloe swallowed hard, her fingers hovering over the glass shards. “I’m... I’m so sorry, Mr. Russo. I’ll clean it right up. I’ll pay for the glass out of my shift wages—”
“Stand up, girl,” Elias interrupted, his gaze never leaving her bruised wrist.
Wallace Kemp came scurrying out of the shadows like a startled rat, bowing profusely. “Mr. Russo, please forgive her! She’s clumsy, she’s—we’ll fire her tonight, I swear to God, she won't—getDocument—won't ever step foot in here again—”
“I didn't ask you to fire her,” Elias said coldly, his eyes flicking up to impale Wallace with a look that made the manager turn white as a sheet. “I told her to stand up.”
Chloe slowly rose to her feet, her legs shaking. She kept her left arm tucked tightly behind her back, trying desperately to pull her sleeve down, but the damage was already done. The quietest thing in the room had suddenly become the loudest.
Elias leaned back in his leather booth, steepling his fingers. He studied her face—the hollow cheeks, the defensive posture, the haunted look of someone who lived every single second of her life waiting for the next blow to land.
“Whose mark is that?” Elias asked softly.
The question hung in the air, dangerous and heavy. The councilman nervously adjusted his tie, suddenly wishing he was anywhere else in the world.
“It’s nothing,” Chloe whispered instinctively, her default defense mechanism kicking in. “I fell. At home. In the kitchen.”
A faint, humorless smile touched the corner of Elias Russo’s mouth. “People who fall in kitchens bruise their knees or their elbows, sweetheart. They don't get hand-shaped iron grips around their radial bones. Who did it?”
“Please,” Chloe begged, her voice cracking as genuine panic set in. She knew what men like Elias Russo represented, but she also knew what Brendan Gallagher would do to her—and to Mateo—if outside elements interfered with his private life. “Please, just let me clean this up. Don't... don't do anything.”
Elias stood up slowly, towering over the table. He reached out, his fingers catching her wrist with astonishing gentleness—so light that it didn't hurt at all, yet so firm she couldn't pull away. He turned her arm over, examining the dark contusions under the amber chandelier light.
May you like
“You’re shaking,” Elias observed quietly.
“Please don't send me back,” Chloe whispered, the words tearing out of her throat before she could filter them. She didn't ask him to save her life, or to avenge her, or to offer her a job. She looked straight into the eyes of a notorious mafia boss and begged for the one thing she feared would be denied: “Please... just don't send me back to him.”
Related Stories
