Chapter 3 - The Price of Exposure
Inside Belladonna, the party at table four had reached its peak.
Tiffany Monroe held her smartphone at arm's length, her bright blue eyes wide with theatrical excitement as the comment section on her live stream scrolled past at blinding speed.
“Did she really just leave? 😂” “Check her husband’s bad review on Yelp lol” “She looked like a soaked bear” “Tiffany you are savage for that”
Brandon Pierce poured another glass of eighty-dollar Cabernet into Tiffany’s glass, leaning over her shoulder to blow a kiss to the camera. "Shoutout to the waitstaff at Belladonna!" Brandon shouted into the microphone. "Top-tier entertainment! Five stars!"
At the front host stand, Graham Vale stood behind his leather-bound reservation book, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead with a linen napkin.
His phone was buzzing in his pocket. It had been buzzing continuously for ten minutes.
He pulled it out, expecting a call from his regional manager or perhaps a reporter asking about the viral video that was already racking up two hundred thousand views on X and TikTok.
The caller ID read: PRIVATE NUMBER.
Graham answered it, slipping behind the velvet curtain near the coat check. "Belladonna, this is Graham speaking."
"Mr. Vale," a smooth, cultured voice said on the other end. The voice belonged to Mateo Ross, chief legal counsel for Vance Holdings. "I am calling to inform you that as of 8:12 PM tonight, the master commercial lease for 142 River Street has been transferred from the Metropolitan Real Estate Trust to V-Holdings LLC."
Graham frowned, adjusting his collar. "I... I don't understand. Our lease isn't up for renewal until next November. We have an option to extend—"
"Your lease contained a morality and reputation clause under Section 14, Paragraph B," Mateo interrupted coolly. "Specifically, any act committed on the premises that brings public disrepute or civil liability to the property owner allows for immediate, non-appealable termination of tenancy."
Graham’s heart gave a sudden, violent thud. "What disrepute? We're an award-winning establishment! We just had a major social media influencer highlight our dining room!"
"Your establishment permitted a public assault on a private citizen thirty-five minutes ago," Mateo said, his tone as cold as winter iron. "The landlord has exercised his right of immediate repossession. You have fifteen minutes to vacate the building."
"Fifteen minutes?!" Graham shrieked, his voice rising so loud that a couple waiting for a table turned to look at him. "Are you insane?! I have eighty guests in the dining room! I have fifty thousand dollars worth of fresh inventory in the walk-in coolers!"
"Correction," Mateo said smoothly. "The inventory now belongs to V-Holdings LLC to cover the default penalties. The new owner is entering the building now."
The line went dead.
Graham stood frozen in the dark alcove, his breath coming in short, panicked hitches. "No... no, this is a joke. This is a prank call from one of Brandon's friends..."
Before he could step back toward the host stand, the heavy glass front doors of Belladonna swung open.
The ambient noise of the restaurant—the clinking of wine glasses, the hum of rich conversation, the soft jazz playing through the ceiling speakers—cut out like a severed cable.
Four men in dark charcoal suits walked into the foyer.
They did not look like health inspectors. They did not look like city officials. They moved with the quiet, terrifying synchronicity of wolves entering a sheep pen.
Two of them took positions beside the front doors, locking them from the inside and turning the brass sign to CLOSED. The third walked directly to the sound system panel behind the host stand and ripped the main audio cable from the wall.
The silence that followed was heavy, sudden, and suffocating.
"Hey!" Brandon Pierce called out from table four, standing up with his glass of wine in hand. "What the hell is going on with the music? We're streaming here!"
The fourth man—Viktor—did not answer Brandon. He stepped aside and held the door open.
May you like
Dante Vance walked into the restaurant.
He wore his dark wool overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape. Beside him, wrapped in a plush cashmere blanket, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of shock and quiet dread, walked Eleanor Hayes.
