Chapter 6 - THE MAP OF MEMORIES
Hannah stood beneath the golden chandelier light, her dark eyes looking straight into Roman's pale gray gaze.
"My grandmother," Hannah answered softly, her voice returning to English, though her tone remained calm, respectful, and steady. "Elena Mercer. She was born in a village called Vrbica, high in the Southern Balkan range. She came to Chicago in 1972."
Roman’s jaw set into an iron lock.
Vrbica.
The name of his mother's birth village—a tiny hamlet of less than eighty stone houses that had been erased from official maps during the border conflicts forty years ago.
"Vrbica..." Roman repeated, the word tasting like a ghost on his tongue.
"She raised me," Hannah continued quietly, her grip on the silver tray loosening slightly as she realized Roman carried no malice toward her. "She didn't speak much English when I was little. If I wanted her to tell me stories, or if I wanted her to make dinner, I had to speak Gorski to her. She used to say that if you forget your mother's language, your soul loses its way back home."
Roman stood frozen, listening to every syllable falling from her lips.
For thirty years, he had been surrounded by men who bowed to him out of fear, women who sought his wealth, and enemies who plotted his downfall. His entire life was an exercise in absolute control, strategic paranoia, and emotional isolation.
Yet here stood a waitress who held the secret geography of his past—a woman who knew the name of his mother's village, who spoke the lost tongue of his ancestors, and who had looked through a kitchen service window and recognized his unspoken grief.
Marcus Greco stepped forward, leaning close to Roman's shoulder, his voice low and cautious. "Boss? Is everything okay? Who is this girl?"
Roman raised his left hand, his thumb and forefinger making a sharp, absolute gesture that silenced his lieutenant instantly.
"Greco," Roman said, his voice returning to its familiar, commanding authority, though his eyes never left Hannah's face. "Tell the kitchen to clear Table Twelve. Cancel the rest of our reservations for tonight."
Greco blinked, startled. "Cancel the... sir, we have the union meeting at nine—"
"Cancel it," Roman stated flatly.
Greco bowed his head immediately. "Yes, Mr. Vale."
Roman turned his head slightly to look at Martin Keller, who was still cowering against the mahogany wall.
"Keller," Roman called out.
The manager practically leaped forward, bowing his head frantically. "Y-yes, Mr. Vale! Anything! Whatever you need!"
"This waitress," Roman said, gesturing subtly toward Hannah. "What is her name?"
"Hannah, sir!" Keller stammered, sweating profusely. "Hannah Mercer! She's... she's one of our part-time servers! If she stepped out of line, I can assure you—"
"She is taking her break," Roman interrupted, his pale eyes cutting into Keller like razors. "Bring a pot of fresh chamomile tea, two clean cups, and a plate of warm bread to the corner booth in Section One. Now."
Keller stared at Roman in absolute, stunned shock, then looked at Hannah as if she had suddenly transformed into royalty. "R-right away, Mr. Vale! Immediately!"
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Roman looked back at Hannah. The cold, dangerous energy that usually surrounded him had receded, replaced by a quiet, profound respect.
"Sit with me, Hannah," Roman said softly. "Please."
