Chapter 2 - The Stare of the Beast
The alcove was a semi-private booth tucked deep into the darkest corner of the restaurant. Gallagher sat in the dead center with his back firmly to the solid brick wall, his men occupying the perimeter. The dog sat right beside Gallagher's chair, a hulking mass of muscle whose piercing yellow eyes tracked every waiter, every busboy, and every flickering candle flame.
Mave approached with measured steps. She did not paste on a fake smile; she knew a fake smile was an insult to men who spent their entire lives detecting lies and deceit.
"Evening," she said, setting down the water glasses in one smooth, practiced motion. "The usual for the table?"
Gallagher did not look up immediately. He was staring intensely at a burner cell phone lying flat on the mahogany table surface. He had thick, calloused fingers covered in faint white scars. Slowly, he raised his head, revealing eyes of a startling pale gray that looked chillingly like dirty ice.
"Yeah," his voice was a low, gravelly rasp, sounding as though simply using it caused him physical pain.
The dog shifted. It leaned forward abruptly and pressed its wet, heavy snout directly against Mave's thigh, sniffing aggressively. One of Gallagher's enforcers—a man with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow—tensed instantly. His hand dropped beneath the table toward his holster.
Mave did not step back. She did not freeze in panic. She simply stood there, perfectly still, while the massive beast inhaled her scent. It smelled the commercial bleach on her apron, the stale grease from the kitchen exhaust, and the cheap vanilla lotion she bought on clearance at the local pharmacy.
"He smells the steaks on the grill," Mave observed calmly.
Gallagher's eyes flicked upward toward her face, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his rugged features. "Usually people step back when he does that."
"If I step back, I trip on the Persian rug, I drop the water pitcher, and then Arthur yells at my ear off. I'd rather take my chances with the dog."
Gallagher stared at her for a long, agonizing second, weighing her words. Then he gave a single, short tug on the heavy leather leash. "Down, Brutus."
The dog released a low, vibrating huff and collapsed back onto the floor, resting its massive head heavily on its paws, though its predatory yellow eyes never left Mave's movements.
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"Ribeyes in twenty minutes," Mave said evenly. She turned on her heel and walked away, feeling the heavy, scorching gaze of four dangerous men and one terrifying animal burning directly into her spine.
She had survived round one. The tip would hopefully be astronomical. But the night was only halfway over, and she had no earthly idea that absolute hell was about to break loose in the back room.
