Rosa Bellamy stumbled into a service table.
A champagne flute rolled from the white linen and shattered across the black marble floor.
Her palm went instinctively to her cheek.
Victor Hargrove calmly adjusted his cuff.
“Now maybe you’ll remember who you’re speaking to.”
More than a hundred people had watched him hit her.
Nobody moved.
Rosa tasted blood where her cheek had caught against a tooth.
Victor pointed toward the broken glass.
“Clean it up.”
“I’ll have someone clear it.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I told you to do it.”
“I heard you.”
A whisper moved through the dining room.
Victor pushed his chair back.
“You think you’re too good to clean my floor?”
Rosa stared at him.
“It isn’t your floor.”
A few guests looked down quickly, hiding reactions.
Victor stepped closer.
“You have an attitude problem.”
“No, sir. I have a job to do.”
His hand rose again.
The restaurant doors opened.
Cold November air swept through the lobby.
Two men in dark suits entered first.
Then came Dante Moretti.
Forty years old. Black overcoat. Charcoal suit. Dark hair pushed back from a face that rarely revealed what he was thinking.
A distinctive black-and-gray tattoo climbed from beneath his collar along the left side of his neck. More ink covered the back of his left hand and disappeared beneath his cuff.
Chicago knew Dante as the owner of restaurants, logistics companies, nightclubs, and real estate.
Chicago whispered another description when he wasn't listening.
Mafia boss.
Victor's raised hand stopped.
Dante didn't look at him immediately.
His eyes had found Rosa.
Then he saw her cheek.
“Rosa.”
She froze.
“You.”
Dante crossed the room.
People moved aside before he reached them.
Victor recovered enough to speak.
“Moretti. This is a misunderstanding.”
Dante stopped beside Rosa.
His tattooed hand settled carefully on her shoulder.
He examined the red mark across her face.
“Did he hit you?”
Rosa swallowed.
“Yes.”
Victor laughed nervously.
“She spilled water on me, became disrespectful, and—”
Dante looked at him.
Victor stopped talking.
“I'm asking Rosa.”
Rosa slowly stood.
“He wanted me on my knees apologizing.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“And when you refused?”
“He hit me.”
Dante turned to Victor.
“You hit her because she wouldn't kneel?”
“You don't understand what happened.”
“I understand perfectly.”
Victor glanced around the restaurant.
“She's a waitress.”
Dante's expression changed.
Barely.
But the two men behind him noticed.
So did Rosa.
Victor apparently didn't.
“A waitress,” Victor repeated. “You're going to make an issue over hired help?”
Dante stepped closer.
“Choose your next sentence very carefully.”
Victor's face reddened.
“Why?”
Dante looked back at Rosa.
Something complicated passed between them.
Five years of silence.
One unanswered letter.
One goodbye that had never really been a goodbye.
Then Dante faced Victor again.
“Because she's my love.”
The entire dining room seemed to stop breathing.
Rosa stared at him.
Victor stared at him.
Even Dante's men exchanged quick glances.
Rosa finally found her voice.
“Your what?”
Dante didn't look away from Victor.
“The woman you just humiliated is the woman I love.”
Victor's confidence disappeared.
“I didn't know.”
Rosa suddenly spoke.
“That shouldn't matter.”
Everyone looked at her.
She stepped away from Dante's hand.
“He shouldn't be sorry because I'm important to you.”
Dante studied her.
Rosa pointed toward the room.
“He should be sorry because nobody deserves what he did.”
Silence.
Then Dante nodded.
“You're right.”
He looked at Victor.
“Apologize.”
Victor's face hardened.
“To her?”
Rosa's eyes narrowed.
Dante's voice became quieter.
“To Rosa.”
Victor looked around.
Everyone was watching now.
“I apologize.”
Rosa waited.
Victor clenched his jaw.
“I'm sorry, Rosa.”
“For what?”
Victor stared at her.
Dante almost smiled.
Victor finally said, “For hitting you.”
Rosa nodded once.
“Thank you.”
Then she turned to Dante.
“And you.”
His faint smile vanished.
“We need to talk.”
“I assumed we might.”
“You don't get to disappear for five years and walk back into my life declaring your love in front of a hundred strangers.”
“Technically, I walked into your workplace.”
“Dante.”
“Right.”
She pointed toward the restaurant entrance.
“Outside.”
Dante Moretti—the man half of Chicago feared—obediently turned toward the door.
Behind them, Victor Hargrove watched.
His embarrassment was already becoming something more dangerous.
And when Rosa followed Dante outside, Victor quietly took out his phone.
“Find out everything about Rosa Bellamy,” he whispered.
He paused.
“And find out why Moretti cares about her.”