Chapter 2 - The Lion in the Diner
Clara wiped her bloody hands on a damp kitchen towel, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She took a deep breath, smoothing down her stained apron, and stepped out of the storage room into the main dining area.
The diner was dimly lit, the yellow fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. Standing near the counter was Vincent Moretti.
Unlike his brother Dominic—the man currently freezing in her walk-in—Vincent was a man of theatrical cruelty. He was younger, with sharp, predatory features, his dark hair slicked back perfectly despite the rain. He wore a tailored cashmere overcoat that looked entirely out of place in a South Boston diner that smelled of stale grease.
Behind him stood two massive men in dark leather jackets, their hands resting casually near their waistbands.
"We're closed," Clara said, her voice surprisingly steady, though she kept her hands hidden behind the high wooden counter to conceal their shaking. "The grill is off."
Vincent smiled, a cold, empty expression that didn't reach his dark eyes. He walked slowly toward the counter, his leather shoes clicking on the tile. "I'm not here for pancakes, sweetheart. I'm looking for my brother. He’s about six-foot-two, expensive suit, probably bleeding quite heavily. Have you seen him?"
"No," Clara said, looking directly into his eyes. She had spent years dealing with aggressive, unstable patients in the emergency room before she was forced to flee her old life. She knew that showing fear to a predator was a death sentence. "No one has been in here since we closed at nine. Just me and my daughter cleaning up."
Vincent stopped at the counter, his gaze sweeping over the empty booths, the sugar shakers, the ketchup bottles. He reached out and tapped a finger against a small puddle of water on the linoleum floor near the kitchen swinging doors.
"That's a lot of rainwater for someone who’s just been cleaning up inside," Vincent murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"The roof leaks," Clara replied without missing a beat. "Right above the register. I’ve been mopping it up all night."
Marcus, the larger of the two bodyguards, stepped forward, his eyes scanning the floor. "Boss, there’s a smudge near the kitchen door. Looks like grease. Or dark water."
Vincent walked over, kneeling down to inspect a faint, dark smear on the floor. He dipped his finger in it, bringing it to his nose. A cruel, satisfied smirk spread across his face. "Copper. Iron. That’s not rainwater, sweetheart. That’s Moretti blood. Dominic’s blood."
He stood up, his demeanor shifting from theatrical politeness to cold, lethal focus. He drew a suppressed pistol from beneath his coat, pointing it directly at Clara’s forehead.
"Where is he?" Vincent asked, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "Tell me, and I’ll let you and your little girl walk out of here tonight. Lie to me again, and Marcus here will find her, and we’ll see how brave you are then."
Clara’s stomach plummeted. The mention of Lily sent a wave of icy terror through her veins. But she knew that if she gave Dominic up, Vincent would kill them all anyway to ensure there were no witnesses. A man like Vincent didn't leave loose ends.
"He... he came in through the back," Clara stammered, pretending to break under the pressure. "He was bleeding. He grabbed some towels from the counter and ran out the side door into the alley. He said if I called the police, he’d come back and burn the place down."
Vincent stared at her, analyzing her expression. For a second, Clara thought he was going to pull the trigger anyway.
"The side alley," Vincent repeated. He turned to Jimmy. "Go check. If he went that way, he couldn't have gone far with those ribs."
Jimmy nodded and headed out the side exit.
Vincent stepped closer to Clara, the barrel of the gun still trained on her. "You’re a good actress, Clara. Or should I call you Clara Vance? Arthur’s lovely widow."
Clara’s heart stopped. He knew.
"You thought we forgot about you?" Vincent laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "We’ve been watching you for three years, waiting for you to lead us to the key your husband stole. And now, my brother shows up at your diner, bleeding. What a beautiful coincidence."
He reached out, his gloved hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Where is the key, Clara? Did Dominic give it to you? Or did he keep it on him?"
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"I don't know what you're talking about!" Clara cried out, her eyes filling with real tears now. "My husband died in an accident! He didn't have any key!"
"We'll see," Vincent said. "Marcus, search the back. Check the office, the kitchen, the storage. Leave nothing unturned."
