Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Julian
Clara didn't buy the "logistics" answer for a second, but before she could press further, the food arrived.
The kitchen had clearly mobilized under the threat of Adrian's raw cash. Plates piled high with steaming fettuccine alfredo, a prime cut of beef sizzling with rosemary butter, and a ceramic bowl filled with three scoops of vanilla ice cream adorned with sprinkles landed before them.
Leo shrieked with joy, immediately abandoning his spoon to dive hands-first into the ice cream.
"Napkin protocol is completely abandoned, I see," Adrian remarked, watching the toddler smear dairy across his nose with cold fascination.
"You pick your battles when you’re solo," Clara sighed, twirling fettuccine onto her fork. She hadn't eaten since noon; the scent of hot garlic and cream made her stomach rumble audibly. She blushed, but Adrian pretended not to hear. "Single parenthood is ninety percent damage control and ten percent praying they don't eat pennies off the floor."
"Where is his father?" Adrian asked, cutting into the steak. The knife glided through the meat effortlessly.
Clara stopped chewing. The warmth in her expression cooled into a bitter chill. "Julian. He’s... around. Usually when he needs fifty bucks or a clean shirt." She took a long, heavy gulp of wine. "Tonight was supposed to be his redemption dinner. He promised he had turned a corner. Promised he’d take us somewhere nice, show Leo he cared. Then, thirty minutes before reservations, he texts me from a burner phone saying 'things got complicated' and that he had to leave the state."
Adrian paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "A burner phone?"
"He has bad habits. Gambling, mostly. Thinks he’s a player in things he has no business touching." Clara shook her head, tracing the rim of her wine glass. "He owed money to some loan shark operating out of the East Docks. Kept saying a man named 'The Hammer' was looking for him."
Adrian’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
*The Hammer.* Frank Vance. A mid-level enforcer who ran underground dice games and sports books on the docks. Vance answered to a crew captain named Jimmy Cole. And Jimmy Cole kissed the ring of Adrian Hale twice a month when he brought the district’s cut to Adrian’s penthouse.
Clara’s deadbeat ex-boyfriend was in debt to Adrian's own organization.
"How much does he owe?" Adrian asked casually, keeping his eyes on his plate.
"Ten grand. Might as well be ten million to a guy like Julian." Clara let out a dry, humorless laugh. "The worst part? When Vance's collectors couldn't find Julian yesterday, they showed up at the diner where I work. Stood outside by the dumpster, watching me through the kitchen window. They told my manager that Julian listed my apartment as his secondary address."
Adrian’s grip on his steak knife tightened until his knuckles turned white. A cold, dangerous fury ignited in the pit of his stomach. There were rules in his syndicate. Civilians were off-limits. Families were never leaned on for uncollected debts unless specifically sanctioned from the top—from *him*. Jimmy Cole had gotten sloppy. Frank Vance was acting outside his leash.
"Did they touch you?" Adrian’s voice dropped an octave, smooth as velvet and cold as a tombstone.
Clara looked up, startled by the sudden shift in the air. The bustling noises of the crowded restaurant seemed to mute behind the sheer weight of Adrian's presence.
"No," she said softly, clutching her fork tighter. "My manager threatened to call the police, and they left. But... they took a picture of my car. I haven't slept since last night. I only kept this dinner reservation because I didn't want to sit in my dark apartment, waiting for the doorknob to jiggle."
Leo dropped his plastic spoon on the floor with a loud clatter.
Adrian reached down, picked up the spoon, and wiped it clean with his cloth napkin before handing it back to the child. Leo gave him another sauce-and-cream grin.
"You don't have to worry about Frank Vance," Adrian said calmly.
Clara frowned, tilting her head. "How do you know that name?"
Adrian lifted his wine glass. "I know the city. Men like that talk loud because they’re small dogs behind high fences. Vance is a collector, not an assassin. He wants money, not trouble."
"Easy for you to say," Clara muttered, though some of the tension drained from her shoulders. "You look like you eat loan sharks for breakfast."
"Only when the steak is overcooked," Adrian replied smoothly.
Through the front window, the black sedan was still idling in the snowfall. Adrian caught the eye of the driver through the glass. The driver recognized Adrian’s profile, panicked, and slammed the car into reverse, screeching away into the New Year's Eve traffic.
Adrian checked his watch. 11:45 PM.
May you like
Fifteen minutes until midnight. Fifteen minutes until the new year began. And Adrian Hale had just found his first order of business for the coming year.
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