Chapter 3 - The Interruption
The small brass bell above the diner door chimed sharply as Roman pushed the door open.
The atmosphere in the Brass Kettle instantly shifted. Conversations trailed off; the clatter of silverware against heavy plates ceased. The regulars—drifters, late-night dock workers, and tired truck drivers—knew the look of real power. Roman Costa walked into the diner with a controlled, lethal presence that made people unconsciously draw their legs back and lower their eyes. He wore a tailored dark suit beneath a heavy black overcoat, his dark hair slicked back with rain, his expression unreadable.
He walked straight toward the back corner booth.
Rebecca saw him coming. She recognized the walk immediately—it was the stride of a man who owned everything he looked at, a man who didn't ask for permission. She stood up from the booth, stepping directly into the narrow aisle to block his path.
“We’re closed for new seatings,” Rebecca said smoothly, her hands resting on her apron hips.
Roman stopped two feet from her. Up close, he was imposing—broad-shouldered, towering over her, his grey eyes cold as river ice. He looked down at her stained uniform, her wet hair tied in a messy bun, and the tired dark circles under her green eyes.
“I’m here for her,” Roman said, gesturing subtly toward Clara.
“Are you?” Rebecca didn't move an inch. “Because she’s been sitting here for twenty minutes drinking tea, and you don't look like a son who lost his mother. You look like a man about to make a scene.”
In the booth, Clara stiffened at the sound of his voice. “Roman?”
“Mother,” Roman said, stepping around Rebecca, his voice instantly softening into something rich and protective. “You left the house without your escort. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”
“I know precisely what happened,” Clara said, pulling her cane closer and lifting her chin with regal disdain. “I went for a walk. I was brushed by a rude gentleman on a bicycle, and then I met this lovely young woman who had the decency to offer me an arm instead of a lecture.”
Roman looked back at Rebecca. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the wet jeans, the mud-stained shoes, and the dry tea cups on the table.
“Did she trouble you?” Roman asked Rebecca directly.
“She’s the best customer I’ve had all week,” Rebecca replied, crossing her arms. “She doesn't tip in complaints, unlike some people.”
Roman reached into his inner breast pocket. Rebecca caught her breath, half-expecting a weapon, but he pulled out a thick leather wallet instead. He extracted a stack of hundred-dollar bills—at least a dozen of them—and laid them flat on the Formica table beside the tea mug.
“For your time,” Roman said crisply. “And for the tea.”
Rebecca looked at the pile of money. It was more than enough to cover her rent, her back bills, and groceries for two months. It was a fortune sitting on a greasy table.
She picked up the money, folded it in half, and shoved it straight back into Roman’s chest.
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“The tea is eighty cents,” Rebecca said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet tone. “And I don't take charity from men who talk to their mothers like they’re property.”
Roman caught the cash as she pushed it back. A sudden, deep silence settled over the back of the diner.
