Chapter 2 - The Brutalist Fortress
The break room smelled of stale coffee and industrial bleach. Paige sat on a plastic folding chair, staring at the matte-black card while Arthur paced the cramped room. “You’re going,” he pointed a shaking finger at her. “Do you understand who that man is? Roman Gallow. Extortion, racketeering, probably a dozen bodies buried under the new stadium. He told me not to fire you, so you’re not fired. But if you don’t show up Friday, he comes back here. And if he comes back here, he isn’t coming for the steak.”
Paige rubbed her forehead. Her wrist was throbbing mercilessly. She unbuttoned her cuff and examined the compression bandage. She needed a different life. She knew the stories about the Gallow family; they ran the port, the unions, and the underground gambling rings catering to the city’s elite. Roman was the youngest son, taking control after his father and older brothers were killed in a car bomb five years earlier. He stabilized the family business with terrifying, quiet efficiency. He was not a man who made quirky little deals with waitresses. Unless he was simply a creep. But the look in his eyes had not been predatory; it had looked like accounting. A cold, hard ledger of debts and credits. She had ruined $6,000 worth of property, and therefore, she owed him $6,000 worth of labor.
Friday arrived with the grim inevitability of a dental appointment. Paige wore black work slacks, comfortable black shoes, and a plain black button-down shirt. She tied her dark hair into a severe knot and left her apartment in the gritty south end of the city. It took two buses to reach the address, a sprawling estate on cliffs overlooking the ocean, separated from the highway by ten-foot iron gates and a thick perimeter of old-growth pine trees. Paige approached a heavy steel call box and pressed the button.
“Name?” a voice crackled through static.
“Paige. I’m supposed to be here.” The gate clicked and swung inward on silent hinges. She followed the winding driveway. The house was massive, a modern brutalist architecture constructed from concrete, glass, and dark wood, looking like a fortress disguised as an Architectural Digest feature. Before she reached the front steps, the heavy oak door opened. The guard from the restaurant stood there. The one with the flattened nose.
“Arms up.” Paige obeyed. He patted her down with professional, impersonal efficiency. “I’m Luca. Don’t talk to the guests. Don’t look at the cards on the table. You pour the drinks, clear the empty glasses, and serve the food. If you hear something you shouldn’t, pretend you didn’t understand. Clear glasses. Don’t listen.”
“Got it.” Luca gave her a sideways look, a hint of a smirk touching his scarred mouth. “In here.” He led her through a cavernous, sparsely furnished hallway and opened a pair of double doors.
Blue cigar smoke hazed the room. A heavy oak table dominated the center beneath a low-hanging chandelier. Five men sat around it, with black-and-gold chips stacked in uneven piles before them. Roman sat at the head, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing faded ink and scars. When Paige entered, he looked up, his expression unchanging, and gave her a slight nod. Paige moved to the wet bar in the corner, containing bottles that cost more than her car. Luca handed her a silver tray and a small, heavy crystal glass.
“Macallan 25. Neat. Bring it to Donovan.” He indicated a heavyset, red-faced man sweating profusely on the left side of the table. Paige poured the amber liquor, placed it on the tray, and approached. She slipped into the space behind Donovan and lowered the tray. “Your drink, sir.” Donovan did not look at her. He snatched the glass and struck its edge against the tray. Scotch spilled across his fingers. “Watch it, sweetheart.”
“Apologies.” Paige stepped back and wiped the tray. For the next hour, she stood in the corner. Her feet hurt, her wrist ached, and she watched the game. It was not friendly. Tension hung thickly in the smoke-filled room, and Donovan was losing badly. Chips steadily migrated across the green felt toward Roman, who played with mechanical precision. He did not smile. He did not gloat. He simply bet, called, and took the money.
“I need another,” Donovan barked, slamming his empty glass down. Paige approached and picked it up. “Same again?” Donovan finally turned toward her, his eyes bloodshot, smelling of sour sweat and expensive cologne. “Are you deaf? I said I need another.” He reached out and grabbed her right wrist. The pressure landed directly on the bruised, inflamed tendon. Paige gasped. Her knees nearly buckled under the sudden, blinding spike of pain. She tried to pull away, but Donovan’s grip tightened. “Hey,” he slurred, dragging her closer. “I’m talking to you.”
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“Let go of me.” She did not scream or plead. Her voice was flat, hard, and exhausted. “I just poured the Scotch. Let go of my arm.” Donovan scoffed. “Feisty little waitress. Where do you find her, Roman?”
“Donovan.” Roman did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
