Chapter 1 - The Sparks at Laura’s
The air inside Laura always smelled of garlic, red wine, and the kind of expensive perfume that made your eyes water if you stood too close to the booths.
Khloe Bennett adjusted her apron strap, feeling the coarse cotton dig into the curve of her neck. Her shift had started five hours ago, and her ankles were already swollen inside her black non-slip shoes. At five-foot-four and two hundred and sixty pounds, Khloe had long since accepted that she moved through the world as an obstacle to some and an invisible ghost to others.
Except to Table 4.
"Another glass of the '09 Barolo," Vivien Kensington said, not bothering to look up as she waved her manicured hand toward Khloe. "And make sure the glass is actually clean this time. The last one had water spots."
"Of course, Miss Kensington," Khloe replied, keeping her tone flat, polite, and completely empty of emotion.
Vivien was twenty-four, slender as a willow branch, and dressed in an emerald silk dress that cost more than Khloe made in three months of full-time shifts. Beside her sat Dominic Costello.
Dominic didn't look like the tabloid pictures. He was thirty-two, broad-shouldered, with sharp charcoal suits that hid the heavy muscle beneath. His dark hair was combed back, and his jawline looked like it had been carved out of granite by someone who didn't care about soft edges. As the newly crowned head of the Costello syndicate, he commanded respect not through loud threats, but through a terrifying, quiet stillness.
And right now, he was letting his fiancée use Khloe as a personal punching bag.
Khloe returned two minutes later carrying a heavy silver tray with the fresh glass. As she reached down to set the glass on the white linen tablecloth, Vivien’s foot moved.
It wasn't a casual shift of weight. Vivien deliberately hooked the sharp heel of her designer shoe around Khloe’s left ankle.
Khloe’s balance snapped. Her weight shifted hard to the left, the heavy tray wobbling dangerously in her grip. Through sheer muscle memory and instincts honed by six years of service work, Khloe contorted her body, catching the hot dish of roasted sea bass and garlic butter sauce before the plate could hit the hardwood floor.
She saved the dish. But she couldn't save the hot butter sauce.
A wide stream of golden grease splashed directly across the lap of Vivien’s emerald silk dress.
The table went silent.
Khloe straightened up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "You put your heel around my ankle," Khloe said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, steady register.
It was the first accusation she had made all night.
Across the table, Dominic Costello stopped moving. His fork hung an inch above his plate, his dark eyes snapping to Khloe’s face.
Vivien’s face contorted into pure, unadulterated venom. "You did that on purpose!"
"You tripped me," Khloe repeated, staring straight into the eyes of the senator’s daughter.
Vivien rose from her chair, her slender frame shaking with rage. "You clumsy, oversized—"
CRACK.
Vivien’s palm struck Khloe across the left cheek with the force of a whip.
The sharp sound echoed across the crowded restaurant. Diners at nearby tables froze mid-chew. The gentle piano music seemed to die in the air.
Khloe’s head jerked to the side. The metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth as her teeth sliced into the inner lining of her cheek. Pain bloomed across her face, hot and throbbing.
She looked around. Lorenzo, the owner who had known her father, looked away, suddenly intensely interested in a wine bottle. The busboys shrunk into the shadows. Dominic Costello simply sat there, his expression unreadable.
He had watched Vivien pour water onto Khloe’s shoes earlier. He had heard the petty jokes about her size. He had watched her kneel to clean up dropped napkins while Vivien giggled.
His silence was a choice.
Vivien mistook that silence for total immunity. "Get the manager," she barked, turning to the frightened host. "I want her fired and arrested!"
Something inside Khloe snapped—a quiet, heavy cable that had been holding her dignity together for years.
Khloe reached out, her thick hand shooting forward with terrifying speed, and grabbed a fistful of Vivien’s platinum blonde hair at the root.
Gasps erupted around the dining room.
Vivien let out a high-pitched shriek. "Let go of me!"
Khloe didn't answer. With her free hand, she picked up the small silver vessel of warm garlic butter from the service stand and inverted it directly over Vivien’s head.
The thick, greasy liquid poured down Vivien’s carefully styled hair, running down her forehead, ruining her makeup, and soaking what was left of her silk dress.
"I am done," Khloe said, her voice low, raspy, and vibrating with absolute authority, "being where you put your cruelty."
Vivien clawed wildly at Khloe’s arms, her long nails scratching Khloe’s wrists.
Khloe gave a firm, powerful shove.
Vivien’s high heel skidded on the slick floor. She crashed backward into an empty mahogany chair and landed hard on her hip beside the table, panting, greased, and utterly disgraced.
Instantly, four men at the surrounding tables stood up.
Jackets flew open.
The cold, dull gleam of steel reflected the soft lighting. Four heavy pistols were aimed directly at Khloe’s chest.
Khloe stood completely still.
She looked at the barrel of the nearest gun, held by a broad-shouldered man with a scar running through his eyebrow. Her pulse raced, but the fear didn't paralyze her. Instead, a bizarre clarity took over.
If she cried, they would shoot her. If she begged, Vivien would demand her blood anyway. There was no obedient version of this moment that kept her alive.
So Khloe lifted her chin and stood her ground.
From the floor, Vivien scrambled onto her elbow, wiping grease from her eyes. "Shoot her! Shoot this fat bitch!"
The guard with the scar tightened his finger on the trigger.
"Don't."
The word was spoken softly, but it cut through the room like a razor.
The guard froze instantly.
Dominic Costello set his fork down on his plate with a light, deliberate clink.
"I said lower it," Dominic repeated, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Khloe’s neck stand up.
Slowly, reluctantly, the four guns dipped toward the floor.
Dominic stood up. He walked around the table, taking long, unhurried strides until he stood three feet from Khloe. He didn't crowd her. His dark eyes scanned her face—noticing the reddening bruise on her cheek, the small bead of blood at the corner of her mouth, and the steady, unflinching glare she gave him in return.
"You could have stopped her," Khloe said, her voice cutting through the silence.
Every bodyguard in the room held their breath.
Dominic’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping beneath his skin. "Yes."
The honesty struck her harder than a lie would have.
Vivien hauled herself to her feet, screaming, "Dominic! She attacked me! I'm your fiancée!"
Dominic didn't look at her. "And she was your server, not your property."
"Go home," Dominic told Khloe softly.
Khloe let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "So your men can follow me into an alley?"
"No."
"Why should I believe you?"
Dominic looked at her, his eyes dark and impossibly deep. "You shouldn't. Not yet."
Khloe wiped the blood from her lip with her sleeve. "I'm fired anyway."
"I know."
"My rent is due Friday."
Dominic’s gaze flicked to Lorenzo, the restaurant owner, who shrank into the wine rack.
"No," Khloe interrupted, her voice sharp. "Do not fix my life because you feel guilty."
Dominic stared at her, genuinely surprised. "What do you want me to do?"
"Make sure nobody follows me."
May you like
Dominic nodded once. "That I can do."
Khloe turned on her heel, pushed through the stainless-steel kitchen doors, and walked out into the freezing Boston rain.
