Chapter 2 - THE VOICE AT THE THRESHOLD
Dennis’s grip on the heavy tray tightened. He shook his head, looking down at Maeve as if she had asked him to break a sacred commandment. He leaned over the open mouth of the black garbage bag, tilting the metal tray further until a golden roasted chicken breast slid to the very edge of the polished steel.
"Now you know," Dennis said coldly, his voice devoid of empathy. "It’s health code and hotel policy. Everything unserved gets dumped. No exceptions, no handouts."
He flexed his wrist, preparing to scrape the entire tray of hot, gourmet food directly into the trash.
"Wait."
The word wasn't shouted, yet it possessed a dense, commanding gravitational pull that instantly halted every movement in the room. It was a deep, gravelly baritone that carried the absolute expectation of immediate obedience—a voice accustomed to issuing orders in boardrooms, private clubs, and shadowed city corridors.
Dennis froze instantly, his arms locking in mid-air. The roasted chicken stayed suspended on the edge of the tray.
Standing in the open threshold of the service kitchen entrance, framed by the warm, golden light spilling from the ballroom corridor, was Gabriel Hart.
In his late thirties, Gabriel was a imposing figure. Tall, muscular, with dark wavy hair brushed back from a sharp, angular jaw, he exuded an aura of quiet, lethal authority. Subtle, dark ink crept up the side of his neck beneath his crisp collar, and intricate line tattoos dusted the backs of his broad hands. He wore a fitted black dinner suit of Italian cut over an open-collar black silk shirt, devoid of a tie. On his left wrist, a heavy, understated platinum watch caught the kitchen light. Gabriel Hart was known across Chicago as a powerful real estate mogul and philanthropist, but everyone in the room knew the unwritten truth: he was the head of the city's most feared and entrenched crime family, a man whose name was whispered with caution in every precinct and corporate tower.
In his right hand, Gabriel held a pair of forgotten reading glasses, having walked back into the service area to retrieve them from the VIP head table's staging area.
His dark, calculating eyes swept slowly across the room. He didn't look at the frozen waiters or the gleaming appliances. His gaze moved deliberately from Dennis Cole, down to the open black garbage bag, and finally to the pristine tray of warm, roasted chicken held over the waste bin.
May you like
Gabriel took two slow, deliberate steps into the kitchen. The soft leather of his dress shoes made no sound against the non-slip tile.
"You were throwing that away?" Gabriel asked, his tone deceptively conversational, yet laced with a dangerous, quiet curiosity.
