“Are you here by choice?”

The question cut through the jazz, the candlelight, the polished silver, and every lie I had told myself about why I had agreed to meet Darren in public.

I looked at the man beside me.

He sat in a black suit with one hand around a low glass of whiskey and the kind of stillness that made the whole restaurant feel arranged around him.

I did not know his first name yet.

I only knew that every server in Marrow & Vine seemed to move differently when they passed his table.

Across the room, the restroom door opened.

Darren was coming back.

The stranger’s gaze held mine.

“You have about three seconds.”

My throat burned.

Then, for the first time that night, I told the truth.

“No.”

He gave one brief nod.

Then he tapped a finger once against his glass.

The manager appeared almost instantly.

Darren walked up still fixing his cufflink, irritation already arranged on his face.

“What is this?”

Then he saw the man sitting beside me.

The color drained from him so fast I thought, for one strange second, that he might actually faint.

“Mr.

Moretti,” he said.

The man set down his whiskey.

“Sit down, Darren.”

The words were quiet.

That made them worse.

Darren laughed, but the sound came out thin.

“This is a misunderstanding.

Elena and I were having a private conversation.”

“No,” Mr.

Moretti said, turning just enough for the amber light to strike the sharp edge of his face.

“You were threatening a woman in my restaurant.”

My restaurant.

That explained the staff.

The manager.

The instant obedience.

It also explained the sudden weight in the room.

Marrow & Vine was one of the hardest reservations to get in Chicago.

I had heard the whispers before I ever stepped inside it.

That the owner had come up hard.

That he owned too many places, knew too many judges, and had once been connected to men who made bad problems disappear.

In public, he was just Nicholas Moretti, hospitality investor, donor, untouchably elegant businessman.

In private, people used another phrase.

Mob boss.

Darren’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“I didn’t threaten anyone.”

Mr.

Moretti’s gaze dropped to my wrist.

Darren’s grip had already left angry red half-moons on my skin.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Because that mark wasn’t there when you walked in.”

He looked toward the manager without raising his voice.

“Lock the front.

Pull the camera feed from this section.

Get Ms.

Reyes downstairs.”

The manager nodded and vanished.

Darren took one step back.

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

Something inside me shook loose then.

Not courage exactly.

Not yet.

More like the first crack in a door that had been sealed shut for too long.

Mr.

Moretti turned toward me.

“Elena, is your phone unlocked?”

I nodded.

“Good.

Put it in your hand.”

I obeyed because his tone held none of Darren’s poison.

It held expectation.

As though I still belonged to myself.

Darren saw what I was doing and reached toward me.

“Don’t start making this dramatic.”

One of the dark-suited men who had appeared near the bar moved so quickly I barely saw him.

His hand closed around Darren’s forearm and stopped him mid-lunge.

“Sir,” the man said, “sit down.”

Darren jerked