Chapter 2 - The Handshake
Adrian stared at the small, warm hand extended across the stained red-and-white checkered tablecloth.
He hadn't shaken a civilian’s hand without an ulterior motive in twelve years. In his world, physical contact was either a transaction, an assertion of dominance, or a prelude to violence. His knuckles bore faint, silver scars from broken jaws; his tailored cuff hid a ceramic-blade wristwatch designed to cut zip-ties.
Yet Clara Bennett was waiting, her brown eyes bright with an exhausting mix of defiance and good humor.
Slowly, Adrian reached out. His large, calloused fingers closed around hers. Her skin was rough at the fingertips—the hands of someone who worked long shifts, scrubbed floors, and washed dishes. She squeezed firmly, then pulled back to catch the toddler before he tipped his sippy cup directly into a basket of garlic bread.
"Adrian," he said simply.
"Just Adrian?" Clara raised an eyebrow, pinning the toddler to her hip with practiced ease. "No last name? What are you, an international spy or on the run from child support?"
"Neither." Adrian pulled the heavy wooden chair out and sat. The legs scraped loudly against the linoleum. The tiny bistro table groaned beneath his presence. At six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds of lean, tailored muscle, he dwarfed the cheap laminated setting. "Just private."
"Fair enough, Just Adrian." Clara reached for the open bottle of Chianti on the table and tilted it toward an empty glass. "Drink? The waiter opened it before my... companion decided he had an urgent appointment with cowardice. If nobody drinks it, they’ll still charge me forty-two dollars, which means Leo and I will be eating dry oatmeal until Tuesday."
"Leo?" Adrian glanced at the toddler.
The boy had spaghetti sauce painted across his forehead like war paint. He was staring at Adrian’s dark tie with wide, unblinking eyes. Suddenly, Leo squealed, reached across the table with a fist covered in marinara, and grabbed Adrian’s four-hundred-dollar Italian silk tie.
Clara gasped. Her face drained of color as she lunged forward. "Leo! No! Let go!"
Every muscle in Adrian’s back tightened. Across the restaurant, two men sitting near the rear exit—his shadow detail, disguised as college football fans—subtly reached inside their coats, their eyes locking onto the table.
Adrian gave a nearly invisible twitch of his left index finger. *Stand down.*
Slowly, deliberately, Adrian leaned forward. He didn't pull away. Instead, he met the boy’s gaze. The child didn't blink. With tiny, sauce-slicked fingers, Leo gave the expensive silk a firm tug, giggled, and let out a burp that sounded remarkably like a deflating tire.
Clara frantically scrubbed at the tie with a paper napkin, only managing to smear the crimson sauce deeper into the weave. "I am so sorry. Oh God, that looks expensive. That looks like it costs more than my car insurance. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning—well, I’ll try to pay for it—"
"Stop," Adrian said. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that instantly cut through her panic.
Clara froze, her fingers inches from his chest. Up close, Adrian smelled like expensive cedarwood, cold winter rain, and something sharper—iron, or gunpowder, though she couldn't possibly place it.
"It's just fabric," Adrian said quietly. He unclipped the gold tie bar, slipped the ruined tie over his head, and tossed it carelessly onto the empty bread plate. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his charcoal dress shirt, exposing the thick column of his throat. "Consider it a donation to dinner."
Clara stared at him, bewildered. "Who are you?"
"A hungry man who was about to spend New Year's Eve in a parked car." Adrian signaled the waiter with a single raised finger.
The waiter—the same terrified boy who had turned Adrian away five minutes ago—scurried over, trembling slightly. "Y-yes, sir?"
"Bring the ribeye. Rare. Another basket of bread, whatever pasta the kitchen is proudest of, and a clean glass." Adrian pulled a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, peeled off two, and laid them flat on the table. "And bring the boy some ice cream. Vanilla."
The waiter stared at the crisp hundred-dollar bills, nodded vigorously, and vanished toward the kitchen like a startled rabbit.
Clara looked from the cash to Adrian’s impassive face. The humor in her eyes retreated, replaced by a sharp, defensive wariness. "I didn't invite you over here to be a charity case, Adrian. I don't need a sugar daddy buying my son ice cream."
"You invited me over because I was cold, and you were alone," Adrian countered smoothly, leaning back and resting his forearms on the table. "I don't accept favors without returning them. Call it professional courtesy."
"What profession?"
Adrian picked up the glass of Chianti and took a slow sip. His gaze drifted past her shoulder toward the frosted glass of the front window.
Outside on the snowy sidewalk, a black sedan with tinted windows had just crawled to the curb, hazard lights blinking. Two men sat inside, staring straight into the bistro.
Adrian set his glass down without making a sound.
May you like
"Logistics," Adrian murmured, his eyes locking onto Clara's. "I solve complicated problems."
***
