Chapter 4 - Dinner with a Demon
The dining room of L’Avenue was a masterclass in modern luxury—all cream velvet booths, soft amber lighting, and the low murmur of wealthy patrons sipping forty-dollar cocktails.
Vanessa Turner sat in a corner booth, her hands tightly clasped in her lap beneath the white tablecloth to hide their shaking. She hadn't touched her wine. She hadn't touched the expensive sea bass that was growing cold on her plate.
Opposite her, Ryan Foster was eating his steak with absolute relish, cutting each piece with a slow, deliberate precision that felt like a threat.
"You really should eat, Vanessa," Ryan said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "You're getting too thin. People at the academy might start asking questions about your health, and we wouldn't want the headmaster to think you're unstable."
"Please, Ryan," Vanessa whispered, her voice cracking as she looked around the crowded restaurant, praying for someone to notice her distress. But to the rest of the room, they looked like a handsome, successful young couple on a date. "Just tell me how much money you want. I can take out a second loan on my car. I can find a second job after school."
Ryan let out a soft, amused laugh, leaning across the table until she could smell the alcohol and meat on his breath. "I don't care about the money, Vanessa. Your husband’s debt is just a tool. What I want is you. I want you to stop looking at me like I’m a criminal. I want you to open that beautiful apartment door of yours tonight with a smile on your face."
He reached across the table, his fingers wrapping tightly around her wrist. His grip was agonizingly hard, bruising her skin. "Do you understand me? Tonight, the games end. Or tomorrow morning, Lily gets a visit from social services."
Vanessa closed her eyes, a single, silent tear slipping down her cheek. She felt a profound, heavy despair settle into her bones. She was going to break. She had no choices left.
"Is there a problem here?"
The voice did not belong to Ryan, and it certainly did not belong to any waiter at L’Avenue. It was a deep, gravelly baritone that carried the weight of an absolute authority—the kind of voice that made the air in a room turn instantly cold.
Ryan blinked, his grip on Vanessa’s wrist loosening as he looked up.
A man was standing beside their table. He was exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a flawless tailored charcoal suit that screamed wealth and power. His hair was dark, his cheekbones sharp, and his gray eyes were locked onto Ryan with an intensity that made the detective’s hand instinctively move toward his jacket.
Before Ryan’s hand could clear the table, another man—Marco—stepped up behind him, his hand settling heavily on Ryan’s shoulder. The hidden barrel of a compact pistol pressed subtly but firmly against Ryan’s spine through the leather of the booth.
"Don't move, Detective," Marco whispered in Ryan’s ear, his voice pleasant but entirely lethal. "Unless you want your dinner to end very messily."
May you like
Vanessa stared at the stranger in charcoal, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't know who he was, but when his gray eyes shifted to her, the absolute, cold malice in them transformed into something protective, steady, and solid.
"Ms. Turner," Dante Moretti said, extending a hand toward her. "Your daughter left something in my son’s backpack. I believe it belongs to you."
