Chapter 2 - THE COAT
Victor DeLuca did not rush.
He didn’t need to.
As he walked across the dining room, the silence in La Bernardine Palace became absolute. The clinking of crystal stopped. The hushed whispers of Manhattan’s elite evaporated.
Even the classical string quartet in the corner lowered their bows.
Ethan Caldwell turned around, the arrogant smirk slipping from his face as he realized who was approaching.
I stayed on the floor, my hip throbbing, the shattered glass of the water pitcher scattered around my knees. I pulled my torn uniform skirt down, my face burning with a humiliation so deep it felt like physical pain.
Victor stopped three feet from Ethan.
He didn’t look angry. He looked entirely, terrifyingly indifferent.
“Mr. DeLuca,” Ethan said. His voice was suddenly an octave higher. The booming entitlement was gone. “I didn’t realize you were dining here tonight.”
Victor didn’t answer him.
He looked down at me.
His dark eyes took in the spilled water, the shattered crystal, and my trembling hands. Then, his gaze shifted back to Ethan.
“Pick them up,” Victor said.
His voice was quiet. Smooth. It carried the weight of a falling anvil.
Ethan blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”
“The napkins,” Victor said, gesturing slightly to the floor. “Pick them up.”
Ethan let out a nervous, breathless laugh. He looked at his wealthy friends for backup. None of them made eye contact.
“Victor, be reasonable,” Ethan tried, adopting a tone of forced camaraderie. “The clumsy girl ruined a five-thousand-dollar jacket. My father—”
“If you mention Richard Caldwell’s name to me right now,” Victor interrupted softly, “I will ensure this restaurant is the last place you ever eat a meal with a full set of teeth.”
The entire room seemed to gasp as one.
Ethan’s face went completely bloodless.
He swallowed hard. He looked at the floor. Then, slowly, the twenty-eight-year-old billionaire’s son sank to his knees in his ruined designer suit.
His hands shook as he reached out and began gathering the wet napkins from the marble floor.
I couldn’t breathe. I watched the man who had just assaulted me kneel in front of me, utterly broken by a single sentence.
“Leave them on the table,” Victor ordered. “And then walk out of this building. If I see your face in Midtown again this week, I will consider it a personal insult.”
Ethan didn’t say a word. He placed the damp napkins on the edge of the nearest table, stood up with his head bowed, and practically ran toward the exit. His friends scrambled after him like frightened mice.
The heavy glass doors closed.
Victor stepped closer to me.
He didn’t offer me his hand immediately. He waited until I looked up at him, ensuring I wasn’t afraid of his movement.
When I nodded, he extended a large, calloused hand.
I took it. His grip was firm and surprisingly gentle. He pulled me to my feet.
“Are you hurt?” Victor asked.
“No,” I whispered, though my elbow was screaming in pain. “Thank you, sir. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“Men who put their hands on women do not deserve the luxury of public comfort,” Victor said simply.
Marcus, my manager, finally rushed over, pale and sweating.
“Mr. DeLuca, I am so sorry for the disturbance. We will handle Anna—”
“You will give Anna the rest of the week off, fully paid,” Victor told Marcus without looking at him. “And you will replace her uniform. If she loses a single shift over this, I will buy this restaurant tomorrow and fire you.”
Marcus nodded frantically and scurried away.
I stood there, shivering. The chilled air conditioning of the restaurant was biting into my soaked blouse. My uniform was torn at the shoulder where Ethan had grabbed me.
Victor noticed my shivering.
Without a word, he unbuttoned his heavy, bespoke black cashmere overcoat.
He took it off and draped it gently over my shoulders.
It was warm. It smelled of expensive cedar and rain. It draped heavily over my small frame, covering my torn clothes and shielding me from the staring eyes of the dining room.
“Go home, Anna,” Victor said quietly.
I froze.
“How do you know my name?” I asked. I wasn’t wearing a nametag. High-end restaurants found them tacky.
Victor’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Pain? Regret?
“Take the coat,” was all he said.
He turned and walked back toward Table 23, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room.
I stumbled toward the kitchen doors, the heavy cashmere coat wrapped tightly around me. I just wanted to get to my locker. I wanted to get to my six-year-old son, Leo.
As I pushed through the swinging doors into the quiet service hallway, I shoved my trembling hands into the deep pockets of Victor’s coat to warm them.
My right fingers brushed against something stiff.
A piece of thick, glossy paper.
I pulled it out into the dim fluorescent light of the hallway.
It was a photograph.
I stared at the image, my heart stopping dead in my chest.
It was a picture of my late husband, David.
He was smiling, wearing the gray sweater I had bought him for our second anniversary.
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But he wasn't alone.
Standing right next to him, with his arm slung casually around David’s shoulders, was Victor DeLuca.
