Chapter 2
The Question That Froze the Table
Natalia’s voice cut through the ambient jazz music like broken glass.
She didn't raise her volume.
She didn't have to.
Her tone was cold, measured, and absolute.
“Where did you learn the St. Petersburg dialect of the Vor v Zakone, girl?”
Dominic’s laughter died instantly.
It didn't taper off.
It vanished as if it had never existed.
His head snapped toward Natalia.
His eyes narrowed into dangerous, calculating slits.
“What did you say, Natalia?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping an octave into a low, threatening rumble.
“I asked her a question,” Natalia replied smoothly, never breaking eye contact with me.
She swirled the remaining ruby liquid in her crystal glass.
“Most Americans only learn textbook Russian from academy tapes or tourist software.”
She leaned forward across the white linen tablecloth.
“You didn't use textbook grammar. You used the exact cadence of the dockside syndicates along the Neva River.”
Victor shifted in his chair.
His massive shoulders strained against the fabric of his tailored suit.
He looked at me with sudden, intense curiosity.
“An interesting skill for a Manhattan waitress,” Victor rumbled in accented English.
“Especially one carrying trays at Le Rêve.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Every instinct screamed at me to play dumb.
To laugh it off.
To act like a startled, uneducated server who had accidentally repeated a phrase from a movie.
Instead, my spine stiffened.
I looked right back into Natalia’s piercing grey eyes.
“Languages have a way of sticking with you, madam,” I said smoothly, switching back to crisp, American-accented English.
“Especially when you spend four years translating classified trade agreements in Eastern Europe before the medical debt hits.”
Dominic slammed his heavy palm onto the table.
Silverware rattled against porcelain.
Nearby diners at Table 3 flinched and looked away.
“Enough games,” Dominic hissed, standing up half an inch from his chair.
“Who are you working for?”
“I work for Le Rêve, Mr. Pierce,” I replied, my voice refusing to tremble.
“And right now, my job is to ensure your guests are satisfied with their Margaux.”
I stepped back smoothly.
I didn't run.
I turned and walked away with deliberate, measured paces.
Behind me, Dominic’s low voice hummed with suppressed rage.
“Check her background, Victor,” he muttered.
“I want to know every address she’s had since she was twelve.”
I slipped through the double doors into the pantry.
My hands were shaking.
Cold sweat beaded along my hairline.
May you like
I had just exposed a secret I had buried for five years.
And in Dominic Pierce’s world, curiosity was a fatal offense.
