Chapter 7 - The Call
Ruby didn't pull out a knife this time.
She pulled out the heavy gold-plated fountain pen Valente had given her in the alley. Walking past the panicked maître d', she marched straight toward booth four, her footsteps clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor.
The scarred man turned as she approached, his sneer widening into an ugly, predatory grin. "Well, look at this. Sweetheart, if you're here to take our drink order, we prefer bourbon—neat."
"I don't take orders from tourists," Ruby said, her voice cutting through the tense silence of the dining room with absolute clarity.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the gold card, and dropped it dead center onto the white tablecloth, right on top of the scarred man's menu.
The man looked down at the card. The ugly grin vanished from his face as if someone had wiped it away with a sponge. His eyes darted from the embossed crest on the card up to Ruby’s unblinking, furious stare.
"Where did you get this?" the man demanded, his voice dropping an octave, losing its bravado.
"Ask your friends in Chicago how well their last delegation did in the alley," Ruby replied smoothly, leaning slightly over the table. "Oh, wait. You can't. They’re currently taking a very long, very permanent vacation in the trunk of a Lincoln."
Before the scarred man could react, before his hand could dip beneath his windbreaker toward his holster, the heavy front doors of Ilbastion swung open again.
This time, the silence in the room wasn't fearful—it was absolute petrified awe.
Valente Carmine walked in.
He wasn't alone. Four men in tailored charcoal suits fanned out instantly, blocking every exit, their hands resting smoothly inside their jackets. Valente looked immaculate, his silver-threaded hair catching the amber light, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the four Chicago thugs standing in booth four.
He didn't rush. He walked with that same terrifying, oxygen-stealing grace, stopping two paces away from the table.
"Gentle, boys," Valente said softly, looking at the scarred man. "You’re tracking mud on my favorite floor."
The scarred man’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He swallowed hard, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. "Carmine... we didn't know this was your direct—"
"That's your primary failing," Valente interrupted smoothly. "You assumed because I was dining, I wasn't paying attention."
Valente turned his gaze away from the thugs and looked directly at Ruby. A subtle, approving nod passed between them—a silent acknowledgment that crossed all the invisible lines dividing their two worlds.
"Ruby," Valente said quietly. "Are these gentlemen bothering your section?"
"They were just leaving, Mr. Carmine," Ruby said, stepping back with practiced grace.
"I believe you heard the lady," Valente said, his voice dropping into a register that made the blood run cold.
Within three seconds, Valente's bodyguards moved in with terrifying, silent efficiency. There was no shouting, no prolonged struggle. Within moments, the four Chicago men were being escorted backward out the front doors into the brisk night air, their weapons confiscated, their dignity completely dismantled.
The dining room remained dead silent.
Valente lingered for a moment by booth four, looking down at the white tablecloth where his gold card still rested. He picked it up, slipped it back into his pocket, and looked up at Ruby with a look that was almost impossibly complex.
"You have a habit of finding trouble in this section, Miss Miller," Valente noted quietly.
"Or trouble keeps finding my tables," Ruby countered without missing a beat.
Valente let out a low, gravelly chuckle. He reached into his coat, pulled out a small, heavy silver key on a leather fob, and set it gently on the table.
May you like
"If you ever get tired of carrying trays, Ruby," Valente said softly, "Ilbastion has need of a general manager who actually knows how to clean house."
He turned and walked toward the back exit without waiting for an answer, leaving Ruby standing alone in the amber light.
