Chapter 4 - The Aftermath at the Continental
The next Tuesday night, the Continental smelled of bleach, wet wool, and stale beer.
Sadi wiped down the mahogany bar with steady, mechanical strokes. Her bank account was still empty, her tips were mediocre, and her brother Tommy had called twice blubbering apologies before she finally blocked his number.
Yet, everything felt different.
The regulars noticed it too. The usual rowdy construction workers kept their voices down when she walked past. Even Richard, the shift manager who usually barked orders like a drill sergeant, spoke to her with a strange, cautious politeness.
Word traveled fast in the underbelly of the city. If Vincent Costa put his hand on a woman in public, that woman was untouchable. She was off-limits. She belonged to the apex predator.
At 8:00 sharp, the heavy oak door of the club swung open.
Vincent walked in.
He wasn't wearing his suit tonight; he wore a black leather jacket over a charcoal t-shirt that hugged the broad expanse of his shoulders, his dark hair slightly damp from the autumn drizzle. He walked straight to booth 4—his booth—sat down with his back to the wall, and waited.
Sadi felt a familiar, sickening lurch in her stomach.
She didn't run over immediately. She poured his black coffee and his single glass of amber bourbon, placed them on a small silver tray, and walked across the room with measured steps.
When she reached the booth, Paulie and the scar-faced kid weren't there.
Vincent was entirely alone.
She set the tray down on the scarred wood table. The ice cubes clinked against the crystal glass.
“You’re early,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I had business nearby,” Vincent replied, his dark eyes rising to meet hers. He didn't touch his drink. He just looked at her, his gaze heavy and assessing. “You look tired, Sadi.”
“I’m always tired. I’m a bartender.”
“Quit.”
Sadi froze, her hand hovering over the tray. “Excuse me?”
“Quit,” Vincent repeated, his tone flat, absolute, and entirely unyielding. “I own the building next door. It’s a bookstore. The owner is retiring. You can run it, or you can sit behind a desk and read all day. Either way, you’re done scrubbing floors and dealing with drunks.”
Anger—sharp, hot, and long-overdue—flared in Sadi’s chest. She planted both hands on the edge of the table and leaned down, bringing her face inches from his.
“I didn't ask for a charity case, Vincent,” she hissed, her eyes flashing. “I didn't ask you to buy me a bookstore any more than I asked you to buy me a $4,000 dress. I asked for a shield for four hours. The debt is paid. We are done.”
Vincent didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
Instead, a slow, dark smile crept across his mouth—the first real smile she had ever seen on him. It transformed his dangerous face into something devastatingly handsome.
“Who said anything about charity?” he asked softly, reaching up to catch a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. His knuckles brushed against her skin, sending an electric shock straight through her body. “I don’t do charity, Sadi. I invest in what I want.”
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“And what do you want?” she breathed, her voice catching in her throat.
Vincent stood up, towering over her in the dim booth. He didn't answer with words. He reached out, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her straight against him, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted like bourbon, spearmint, and absolute ruin.
