Chapter 2 - The Bill comes Due
"Mr. Valdez," a frantic voice gasped.
Greg, our restaurant manager, came rushing out of the service station, his face the color of sour milk. He was wiping his hands on a white cloth, his chest heaving with panic.
"Mr. Valdez, please. This is a misunderstanding. Trent... Trent is Judge Whitaker's son. The judge is a very good friend of the owner of this establishment—"
"Greg," Damian said, his voice flat.
Greg froze mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.
"Get the first aid kit," Damian ordered. "Clean the girl's face. And then leave the dining room."
"But—"
"Now, Greg."
The manager didn't dare utter another syllable. He grabbed my arm, his grip shaking, and practically dragged me toward the back hallway. I didn't resist. My legs felt like lead, and the pain in my face was beginning to blossom into a deep, throbbing ache.
As the service door swung closed behind us, I caught one last glimpse of the dining room.
Damian Valdez had stepped closer to Trent. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the collar of Trent’s expensive shirt with an effortless, terrifying grip, lifting the young man slightly off his feet.
Trent’s slurred arrogance had finally shattered. His face was pale, his eyes wide with the realization that his father’s name could not protect him here.
"Tessa, oh my god, Tessa," Greg stammered, pulling me into the empty kitchen pantry. He was fumbling with a blue plastic medical box, his hands shaking so violently he dropped a roll of gauze onto the floor. "What did you do? Why did you get involved? You should have let him hit the kid!"
"He was six years old, Greg," I whispered, holding a cold wet paper towel to my split lip. The cold water stung, but it helped clear the fog in my brain. "Trent was going to hurt him."
"That kid belongs to the Valdez family!" Greg hissed, leaning in. "Do you have any idea what they do to people? The police don't go near them. The mayor doesn't go near them. And you... you just put yourself right in the middle of a war!"
"I took a hit for a child," I said, my voice hardening despite the pain. "If you're going to fire me, Greg, just do it. I have three days to find eighteen hundred dollars for my mother's medicine, and I don't have time to listen to you scream."
Greg stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger and disbelief. Before he could answer, the pantry door slid open.
Marcus, the large bodyguard who had taken Leo to the car, stood in the doorway. He didn't look at Greg. His eyes were fixed on me.
"Miss Navarro," Marcus said, his voice deep and polite. "Mr. Valdez would like to see you in his private office. Now."
May you like
Greg went entirely silent, stepping back as if I were contagious.
I set the bloody paper towel down, straightened my apron, and walked out of the pantry.
