The little girl did not ask for a table.

The following Tuesday night was slow at Bellamy’s. A heavy blizzard had paralyzed the city, dumping ten inches of white powder across the streets and keeping most of our high-end clientele indoors.

By nine o'clock, the dining room was completely empty except for a couple finishing their desserts near the window. Mr. Bennett had retired to his second-floor office to work on inventory, leaving me alone at the host stand to handle the closing reservations.

I was wiping down the mahogany podium when the front brass bell chimed softly.

I looked up, expecting to see a late diner looking for shelter from the snow.

Instead, a tall, broad man walked into the foyer. He wore a heavy leather trench coat stained with melting snow, a dark flat cap pulled low over his forehead, and heavy boots that left muddy tracks across the white marble floor.

He had a thick, scarred neck, small, bloodshot eyes, and a cruel, heavy jawline that looked as if it had been broken and reset multiple times.

Two larger men in dark canvas jackets stood directly outside the glass door behind him, their hands thrust deep into their coat pockets, watching the empty street.

It was Marcus Vance.

My mouth went completely dry. I gripped the wooden edge of the podium to hide my shaking hands.

“Good evening, sir,” I squeaked out, forcing myself to maintain my professional composure. “We are closing in twenty minutes, but if you’re looking for a late—”

Vance ignored me completely. He walked right past the host stand, his muddy boots crunching loudly on the carpet as he scanned the empty dining room. His gaze settled on the shadowed alcove near the back wall.

Table Eleven.

Vance walked over to the table, pulled out the plush leather chair where Dominic Moretti usually sat, and sat down. He leaned his thick elbows on the pristine white tablecloth, staring at the empty space across from him.

“Is Dominic here?” Vance growled, his voice sounding like two heavy stones grinding together.

“N-no, sir,” I said, walking slowly down the carpeted aisle, keeping a safe distance of ten feet. “Mr. Moretti only dines here on Friday evenings.”

Vance sneered, spitting a small dark spot of tobacco juice directly onto the white tablecloth.

My stomach turned, but I didn't dare say a word.

“He’s dining with his new little accountant these days, isn't he?” Vance muttered, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying, predatory intensity. “The quiet girl with the kid. The one he pulled off the street.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “I don't know what you’re talking about, sir. I just seat the guests.”

Vance let out a dry, barking laugh that had no humor in it. He reached out with his thick, calloused hand, picked up a silver steak knife from the place setting, and began tapping the sharp tip rhythmically against the wood beneath the tablecloth.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Tell Dominic something for me, girl,” Vance whispered, leaning forward over the table. “Tell him he should stick to buying restaurants and leave the harbor accounting to men who know how to work the docks. Tell him if his new bookkeeper keeps looking through my ledgers, she might find herself taking a long walk into Lake Michigan with her little girl.”

The sheer, unadulterated malice in his voice made my knees buckle.

Vance slammed the steak knife down, driving the blade two inches deep straight through the white linen into the dark mahogany table beneath.

He stood up, adjusted his heavy leather trench coat, and walked back toward the front entrance. As he passed me, he stopped, leaning down so close I could smell the stale tobacco and cold whiskey on his breath.

“Remember the message, Miss Dawson,” he growled softly.