Chapter 2 - Maya straightened.
Her professional expression returned as though nothing had happened.
“My name is Maya, sir.”
She switched back to English.
“I’ll return with your beluga and 2 bottles of the 1982 Margo.”
She picked up the pitcher.
“Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to make your evening more comfortable.”
Then she walked away.
She did not hurry.
Did not look back.
Only when she crossed into the kitchen did her hands begin shaking.
The heat and noise hit her at once.
Pans.
Steam.
Vinegar.
Metal.
Maya pressed both palms against a stainless-steel counter.
She had insulted Dominic Russo.
Called him cheap.
Mocked his class.
Done it in front of his most dangerous men.
“Maya.”
Henry came toward her, furious.
“What did you do?”
He grabbed her arm.
“What did you say?”
“The whole table stopped talking.”
“Greg said the big one almost reached for a weapon.”
“I took the order.”
Maya pulled her arm away.
“They want beluga.”
“And 2 bottles of the 1982 Margo.”
Henry’s anger vanished for a second.
“The 1982?”
He stared.
“That’s a $12,000 order.”
Maya looked at him.
“I need the caviar service and the reserve-cellar key.”
Henry threw the brass keys toward her.
“Do not ruin this.”
“You smile.”
“You pour.”
“You are a ghost.”
Maya caught the keys.
“Right.”
She descended into the wine cellar.
The air below was cold and smelled of cork, dust, and stone.
She located the bottles carefully.
Then returned upstairs.
Survival instinct began reasserting itself.
The practical part of her mind reminded her of Sophie.
The hospital.
The landlord.
The eviction notice.
It told her to apologize.
To keep her job.
To survive.
But another part of her refused.
She prepared the caviar.
Ice in the silver bowl.
Mother-of-pearl spoons aligned carefully.
She opened the wine and decanted it.
Then loaded everything onto a large silver tray.
The weight pulled at her wrists.
Maya carried it anyway.
When she returned to Booth 9, the dynamic had changed.
The men were waiting for her.
The enforcers watched her hands.
Dominic watched her face.
He had shifted forward in his seat.
No lazy arrogance.
Only careful observation.
Maya set down the tray.
Placed the caviar.
Arranged the spoons.
Then lifted the first decanter.
“The 1982 Margo, gentlemen.”
She poured for the scarred man first.
Exactly 2 oz.
Then moved around the table.
When she reached Dominic, he spoke quietly.
“You have a terrible accent.”
Maya finished the pour before responding.
“I apologize, sir.”
“My Neapolitan is rusty.”
Her expression remained neutral.
“I don’t get much practice scrubbing floors here.”
A muscle moved in Dominic’s jaw.
He looked at her as if testing structural weakness in a building.
“Where did you learn it?”
“I don’t believe that information is on the menu.”
Maya tucked the tray beneath her arm.
“Enjoy the caviar.”
Then she walked away.
For the next 3 hours, she served them.
Dry-aged meat.
White-truffle risotto.
Wine.
Every time she approached, Dominic watched.
He saw her avoid the wandering hand of a drunk customer at another table.
Saw the exhaustion return to her shoulders when she believed nobody was looking.
Saw how carefully she carried everything despite the pain in her feet.
By 1:00 a.m., most of the restaurant had emptied.
Maya approached Booth 9 to clear dessert plates.
Dominic’s men were standing.
He remained seated.
He placed the black leather bill folder on the table.
“No need to run the card.”
Then,
“Keep the change.”
Maya looked down.
A thick stack of $100 bills protruded from the folder.
At least $5,000.
Her stomach tightened.
2 months of rent.
Sophie’s medication.
Breathing room.
For 1 terrible moment, she wanted it.
Then she looked at Dominic.
He was watching her.
Waiting.
The realization hit immediately.
This was another test.
He wanted to see if desperation had a price.
Maya picked up the folder.
Removed the exact cost of the bill.
Then added 20%.
She placed the remaining cash back on the table.
At least $3,000.
“Your change, sir.”
Dominic looked down at the money.
Then up at her.
That dangerous smile returned.
He said nothing.
He stood.
Buttoned his jacket.
Walked past her.
Maya remained beside the empty booth with dirty plates in her hands.
She stared at the money.
Regret settled heavily in her stomach.
She had kept her pride.
But pride would not pay the bank on Monday.
The alley behind the Obsidian Room smelled of wet asphalt and rotting garbage.
Rain hammered the dumpsters.
Maya pushed through the employee exit wearing a faded gray hoodie, black jeans, and worn boots.
She was exhausted.
The kind of fatigue that felt built into her bones.
She had 6 blocks to walk before reaching the subway, then a 40-minute ride, followed by another 3 blocks to her apartment.
If everything went well, she would get approximately 4 hours of sleep before taking Sophie to the clinic.
Maya stepped into the rain.
After 3 steps, a shadow separated itself from the wall ahead.
She stopped.
The scarred enforcer from Dominic’s table blocked the alley.
The scar through his eyebrow caught the distant yellow streetlight.
Maya tightened her grip on her canvas bag.
The restaurant door behind her had already locked.
The street was approximately 30 ft away.
The man stood between her and it.
“I don’t have money.”
Her voice wavered.
“If this is about what I said inside, let me pass.”
The enforcer said nothing.
Then an engine started behind him.
A black sedan entered the alley.
Headlights cut through the rain.
The vehicle stopped.
The rear door opened.
“Get in.”
Dominic’s voice.
Maya stayed where she was.
“I’m taking the subway.”
She raised her voice over the rain.
“I’m not getting into a car with you.”
The scarred man stepped aside.
Dominic sat in the rear seat with a tablet on his knees.
He did not initially look toward her.
“The Blue Line is closed for maintenance at 52nd Street.”
His voice remained calm.
“You will not reach your apartment in Washington Heights before 3:00 a.m.”
He glanced at the screen.
“That leaves you approximately 3 hours before you take Sophie to St. Jude’s for her 6:00 a.m. dialysis appointment.”
Maya stopped breathing.
The cold rain suddenly felt sharper.
He knew Sophie.
The clinic.
Her schedule.
Everything.
In 3 hours at a restaurant table, Dominic had stripped open her private life.
“How do you know that?”
Her voice was barely audible.
Dominic finally looked up.
“I know everything.”
He continued.
“You owe $32,000 in medical debt.”
“Your landlord, Mr. Henderson, filed an eviction notice yesterday.”
May you like
“You worked a double shift Tuesday.”
“A single Wednesday.”
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