Chapter 4 - The Black Sedan
The night air outside the Onyx Room was wet and bitter cold.
A light rain had begun to fall, slicking the cobblestones of the alleyway with a dark, reflective sheen.
Standing in the shadow of the loading bay was a massive, dark matte-black sedan. Its windows were tinted so heavily they looked like solid slabs of obsidian. The engine was running, emitting a low, guttural purr that vibrated through the damp pavement under Clara’s thin work shoes.
Arthur walked beside her, his long strides slowing to match her smaller, hesitant steps. The dark wool coat he had placed around her shoulders was far too large; it draped past her knees and smelled completely of him—cedar, leather, and dark tobacco. It was heavy, but the weight felt surprisingly like armor.
Leo held the rear door open as they approached.
Clara stopped two feet from the open car. She looked down into the dark, plush leather interior.
"Where is Derek?" she asked quietly, her breath forming small white clouds in the freezing air.
"Marco is transporting him," Arthur replied, stopping beside her. He didn't force her into the car. He stood in the rain, letting the cold droplets collect on his broad shoulders and dark hair, waiting for her decision. "He is currently resting in the back of an iron delivery van on his way to the 4th Street dock."
"What are you going to do to him?"
Arthur looked down at her. The streetlights caught the silver hair at his temples and the sharp, unrelenting line of his jaw.
"That depends," Arthur said.
"On what?"
"On how much truth he tells me before midnight."
Clara took a deep breath. The scent of rain and heavy wool filled her lungs. She thought of her narrow apartment on 12th Street. She thought of the three cheap deadbolts she locked every night. She thought of the way her heart leapt into her throat every time a footstep echoed in the hallway outside her door.
She was tired of being afraid.
She gathered the heavy folds of Arthur’s coat around her waist and stepped into the back of the black sedan.
Arthur climbed in beside her, his broad frame filling the space without invading hers. The door clicked shut with a solid, airtight thud that cut off the noise of the city completely.
The car pulled away from the curb, glided through the rain-soaked streets, and turned south toward the river.
Inside, the atmosphere was quiet, warm, and smelled faintly of leather and polished wood. Between the front seats and the rear compartment was a thick pane of soundproof glass.
Arthur reached for a silver carafe resting in a recessed holder, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass, and offered it to her.
"Drink it," he said softly. "It will stop the shaking."
Clara took the glass with both hands. Her fingers were still trembling so much the liquid sloshed against the crystal rim. She took a small sip. The liquor burned down her throat, settling into her stomach like a pocket of liquid fire.
"Why are you doing this?" Clara asked, looking straight ahead at the dark rain smearing across the windshield. "You don't know me, Mr. Moretti. I'm just a waitress who brings you your whisky on Tuesdays."
Arthur leaned back against the leather seat, resting his chin on his thumb as he watched her profile in the passing streetlights.
"My father taught me three rules when I took over the family business, Clara," Arthur said smoothly. "First, never lie to a man holding a gun. Second, never make a promise you cannot afford to enforce."
He paused, his gray eyes darkening.
"And third," he continued softly, "never let another man mark something in your house without leaving a deeper mark on him."
May you like
Clara turned her head to look at him. "I'm not 'something in your house.'"
"No," Arthur agreed, his voice dropping into a register that made her pulse flutter. "You're not. You're the only person in that restaurant who looks at me like a man, rather than a threat or a bank account. And tonight, you were under my protection whether you asked for it or not."
