Chapter 2 - THE SILVER WATCH
“Apologize,” Vincent said.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
The entire dining room of Aurelio’s held its collective breath. The clinking of crystal, the soft jazz from the corner, the murmured conversations of Wintermere’s elite—all of it had evaporated.
Preston Hale, a man who built his entire life on the illusion of absolute control, was pinned to his tufted leather chair by a single hand.
Claire watched her husband’s face turn a mottled, furious shade of red. He gripped the heavy oak arms of his chair, his knuckles stark white. He tried to stand again.
Vincent’s hand didn’t even tremble. The downward pressure was absolute.
“Take your hands off me,” Preston hissed, his voice dropping to a panicked, venomous whisper. “Security! Get this thug off me!”
Two waiters shifted nervously near the kitchen doors, but a sharp, minute shake of the maître d’s head kept them firmly in place. Nobody was coming to help Preston.
“You misunderstood the instruction,” Vincent said, his voice as smooth and cold as the ice in a whiskey glass. “I didn’t ask you to call for help. I told you to apologize to your wife.”
Preston looked at Claire.
For the first time in nine months of marriage, the look in his eyes wasn’t condescension. It wasn’t correction.
It was pure, unadulterated fear.
“Claire,” Preston commanded, his voice trembling. “Tell him to back off.”
Claire sat perfectly still. Her cheek burned where he had struck her, a deep, throbbing heat that radiated into her jaw. Usually, this was the moment she would fold. The moment she would shrink herself down, smooth over the edges of his temper, and apologize for making him angry.
She looked at the shattered wine glass. She looked at the red stain spreading across the white tablecloth.
Then she looked at Vincent Moretti.
His dark eyes flicked to hers, and in that brief second, Claire saw something she hadn’t seen in a man’s face since her father died.
Protection.
“Claire!” Preston snapped, his fear curdling back into anger.
He wrenched his shoulder violently, trying to break Vincent’s grip.
In the sudden, jerky movement, Preston’s suit jacket pulled open. Something heavy and metallic slipped from his inner breast pocket, clattering sharply against the edge of the table before dropping onto the plush carpet.
Vincent’s eyes darted down.
Preston froze, all the fight instantly draining out of his body. He lunged awkwardly toward the floor to grab it, but Vincent was faster.
Vincent’s heavy leather shoe stepped down, pinning the object to the carpet.
Slowly, Vincent lifted his foot and reached down.
When he stood back up, a heavy silver pocket watch rested in his palm. The casing was heavily scratched, etched with a faint, intricate pattern of intertwining ivy leaves.
Claire’s breath hitched in her throat.
“Where did you get this?” Claire whispered, the words scraping out of her dry throat.
Preston’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.
“Preston,” Claire said, her voice rising in a way it never did. “You told me that watch was lost in the move. You told me the movers must have stolen it. That was my father’s watch.”
Vincent stared at the silver timepiece. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
He didn’t look at Claire. He kept his dark, lethal gaze fixed entirely on Preston.
“Answer her,” Vincent said softly.
“It’s mine now,” Preston stammered, adjusting his cuffs with shaking hands. “I’m her husband. What belongs to her belongs to me.”
Vincent’s thumb brushed over the scratched ivy engraving.
“You didn’t just keep this from her,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a register that made the hair on Claire’s arms stand up. “You brought it here tonight. To Aurelio’s. Why?”
Preston swallowed hard. “I like the weight of it.”
“Lie,” Vincent said flatly.
Vincent looked at Claire. His expression softened, just a fraction, when he met her eyes.
“Mrs. Hale,” Vincent said politely. “Reach into your husband’s left jacket pocket.”
Preston’s eyes widened in sheer terror. “No! Don’t touch me!”
Vincent pressed his hand down harder on Preston’s shoulder. Preston gasped, pinned immovably against the chair.
“Do it,” Vincent told her.
Claire’s hands were shaking. She stood up, her navy dress brushing the edge of the table. She reached across the ruined wine and slipped her trembling hand into Preston’s tailored suit pocket.
Her fingers closed around a stiff piece of paper.
She pulled it out.
It was a first-class boarding pass.
Flight 408 out of Wintermere International.
Departure time: 11:30 PM. Tonight.
Destination: Geneva, Switzerland.
And it was for one passenger only. Preston Hale.
Claire stared at the ticket, the reality of her marriage shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.
“You’re leaving?” Claire asked, the betrayal hitting her so hard she felt physically dizzy. “Tonight?”
Preston didn’t look at her. He looked at Vincent.
“You have no idea what you’ve walked into, Moretti,” Preston spat, a desperate, cornered edge to his voice.
The reversal made Claire’s stomach drop.
Preston didn’t just know who Vincent was. He had been terrified of him from the start.
“I know exactly what I walked into,” Vincent said, slipping the silver pocket watch into his own pocket.
May you like
He turned his back on Preston entirely and extended a hand toward Claire.
“Come with me, Claire.”
