Chapter 2 - THE ANCIENT DIALECT
Martin Keller noticed Hannah staring through the service window. He stepped into her line of sight, his face flushed with irritation and sheer stress.
"Hannah! Did you hear me?" Keller snapped under his breath. "Back to Section Three! Table Eight needs their check, and Table Four wants another bottle of Barolo. Move!"
Hannah didn't step back. She kept her eyes fixed on the narrow glass pane, watching Roman Vale’s mouth move a second time.
Inside the alcove, Roman murmured the exact same phrase again, his voice dropping into a raspy, quiet rumble that barely reached his own plate:
"I only wanted my mother's soup."
The translation formed instantly in Hannah’s mind—not through mental effort, but through instinct. It was the specific, regional Old Gorski dialect—a lost mountain tongue from the borderlands of the Southern Balkans, a language that had no written alphabet and was passed down entirely through oral tradition within isolated families who had fled the wars of the early twentieth century.
Her grandmother, Elena Mercer, had been born in one of those high, forgotten mountain villages. For twelve years before her death, Elena had spoken to young Hannah exclusively in Old Gorski while stirring heavy copper pots of traditional mountain broth on an old gas stove in their small apartment.
"He isn't angry," Hannah whispered softly, her eyes still locked on Roman through the pane.
Keller blinked, taken aback by her tone. "What?"
"I understand him," Hannah said, turning her head slowly to look at the manager.
Keller’s expression transformed from irritation to sheer, incredulous disbelief. He let out a dry, nervous laugh that carried zero humor.
"Hannah, this is not the night for jokes or experiments," Keller warned, leaning closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "That man over there is Roman Vale. He controls half the commercial real estate on the North Side and three union locals. He doesn't want conversation. He wants dinner, and right now, our Michelin-starred chef has failed to give it to him."
"He doesn't want the steak, Mr. Keller," Hannah insisted, her voice calm, steady, and entirely grounded. "And he doesn't want the lobster."
Keller stared at her, his brow drawing into a tight, skeptical line. "Then what does he want?"
"His mother's soup," Hannah answered plainly.
Keller stared at her as if she had suddenly spoken in riddles. "His mother's... what? Are you insane? He's at Bellanote! We don't serve home-cooked soup! We serve a $180 prime ribeye and imported truffles!"
"He isn't complaining about the menu," Hannah explained, her dark eyes reflecting the warm chandelier light. "He's homesick. He just said it twice in Old Gorski. He said he didn't want the meat; he wanted his mother's wild plum and roasted garlic broth."
Keller’s jaw dropped. "Old... what? What kind of language is that?"
"My grandmother spoke the same language," Hannah said softly. "She raised me on it."
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Keller looked from Hannah’s calm, serious face back through the narrow service window toward Table Twelve.
Inside the alcove, Roman Vale was slowly pushing his linen napkin onto the mahogany table. The gesture was small, but every man seated around him reacted instantly, their bodies shifting in their chairs like wolves sensing a sudden change in the wind.
