Chapter 1 - The First InvoiceThe noise of Strada shifted the moment Dominic Vane poured his first glass of Chianti. It wasn't a sudden silence—it was worse. It was the frantic, performative noise of thirty people trying very hard to prove they were having a normal Friday night while a shadow sat in booth nine.
Gerald lingered near the POS terminal, tapping the touchscreen so forcefully I thought he might crack the glass. Every time I picked up a tray or wiped down a side station, I felt Dominic’s gaze follow me—not with crude interest, but with the quiet, terrifying precision of a strategist surveying a board.
When I stepped up to table nine with his pasta, I placed the heavy ceramic bowl on the table without a tremor in my hand. I had spent forty hours a week carrying hot plates to demanding Chicago executives; I wasn't going to let a man in a five-thousand-dollar suit make me drop a fork.
"Pardelle with wild boar ragù," I said smoothly. "Can I get you some cracked pepper or fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano?"
Dominic didn't look at the food. He leaned back in the plush leather booth, crossing one long leg over the other.
"How much were the shoes?" he asked.
I blinked, my pepper mill poised in mid-air. "Excuse me?"
"The shoes you were wearing on Wednesday," Dominic said, his voice low, deep, and smooth like aged cognac. "The ones my driver ruined in the puddle."
"They were sixty dollars at a department store sale two years ago," I replied coldly. "And they're dry now. Mostly."
"And the apples?"
"A dollar forty-nine a pound."
A faint spark of amusement lit his dark eyes. "You calculated it."
"I calculate everything, Mr. Vane. When you live on thirty-nine dollars until payday, every cent is an item on a balance sheet." I set the pepper mill down on the white linen tablecloth with a soft thud. "Is there anything else I can get you for the meal?"
Dominic reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek, black leather wallet, and extracted a heavy card. It wasn't a credit card; it was a black-and-gold business card embossed with a single stylized 'V' and an address in the West Loop. He slid it across the white linen until it rested near my hand.
"Tomorrow morning at eight," he said. "Come to that address."
I didn't pick up the card. "I have a morning shift at the library, and then an afternoon shift here."
"I own the library's expansion grant, Nadia," Dominic murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air in my lungs feel heavy. "And as Gerald so helpfully reminded you, I own the building under your feet right now. Your shifts can be rescheduled."
My temper, which had been simmering since Wednesday's rainstorm, flared back to life. "Is this how you operate, Mr. Vane? Someone calls you out for being reckless, so you buy up their schedule to prove you can?"
"I don't need to prove anything," he said simply. "I am offering to settle an invoice. You said I was a waste. Tomorrow, you can decide if that's true."
Before I could answer, his phone chimed on the table—a single, low vibration. He looked at the screen, and in a split second, the quiet amusement vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of pure, unyielding stone. He stood up, throwing a hundred-dollar bill onto the table next to his barely touched wine, and walked toward the exit without another word.
Gerald appeared beside me in less than two seconds, staring at the hundred-dollar bill like it was a live grenade.
"What did he say to you?" Gerald whispered, sweating through his collar.
May you like
I looked down at the black-and-gold card sitting on the white tablecloth.
"He told me to send him a bill," I whispered.
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