Chapter 4 - The Scrutiny of Wolves
The atmosphere at Table Twelve plummeted from warmth to absolute zero in the space of a single second.
Behind Dominic’s chair, the three bodyguards shifted their weight in unison—a subtle, synchronized adjustment of tailored wool that brought their hands closer to the concealed holsters beneath their left armpits. Their dead, watchful eyes locked onto Hannah’s silhouette, reading the room’s sudden tension with the hair-trigger sensitivity of seasoned enforcers.
Hannah drew in a slow, silent draft of air through her nose, feeling the cool breath steady the rapid flutter of her pulse. She did not jump; she did not drop her hands to her sides in a fluster of guilt. To show fear before Dominic Vale was an invitation to be torn to pieces; men like him fed on the hesitation of others.
Beside her, Caleb’s smile had vanished as quickly as it had bloomed.
His pale brown eyes darted to his father’s posture—the hunched, forward-leaning bulk, the clenched fists, the corded muscle throbbing in the neck tattoos. Caleb knew that posture intimately. It was the physical herald of Dominic’s wrath, the stance he took before breaking an underboss’s fingers or ordering a warehouse burned to the ground. Caleb’s gaze flicked back to Hannah, his jaw tightening again, his eyes wide with a sudden, silent alarm. He was not worried for himself—he was accustomed to his father’s verbal and physical violence—but he had just drawn this composed, courageous young woman directly into the line of fire.
Dominic leaned in further, his dark eyes boring into Hannah’s face with the intensity of an interrogator’s lamp.
“I asked you a question, girl,” Dominic whispered, his tone vibrating with dangerous, gravelly resonance. “You stood there waving your hands around, and now my boy is grinning like an idiot. He doesn't smile at this table. He hasn't smiled in this city in five years. What did you say to him, and what did he say back?”
Hannah met the mob boss’s piercing stare without a single tremor in her lashes. Her face returned to a mask of polite, unassailable professional decorum.
“I asked Mr. Vale how he would like his steak prepared, sir,” Hannah replied, her voice smooth, level, and melodic, carrying not an ounce of subservience. “And he informed me that he prefers the twenty-ounce bone-in ribeye, medium-rare, with the wild forest mushrooms.”
Dominic’s eyes didn't waver. He didn't blink. A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the table, punctuated only by the distant clink of a champagne bucket across the dining room.
“Is that all?” Dominic asked, his lip curling slightly in disgust. “It took that much hand-waving just to order a damn steak?”
“American Sign Language relies on spatial grammar, context, and descriptive classifiers, Mr. Vale,” Hannah explained calmly, her hands resting naturally over her apron. “It requires more movement to specify cut, temperature, and sides than spoken English does.”
Dominic tilted his head, his graying beard catching the amber glow of the chandelier. He studied her—taking in the crisp collar, the messy updo, the clear, intelligent hazel eyes that refused to drop to the floorboards. He was a man who lived by reading deceit, who had survived three decades in the Chicago underworld by detecting the microscopic sweat breaks and pulse spikes of liars.
Yet Hannah Mercer stood before him as steady as carved marble.
May you like
Dominic slowly sat back into the leather banquette, though his posture remained coiled like a copperhead. He picked up his tumbler of scotch, taking a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the crystal.
“Where does an ordinary steakhouse waitress learn to talk with her hands like that?” Dominic asked, his voice soft, inquisitive, and completely stripped of warmth.
