Chapter 3 - The Midnight Offer
The kitchen was dead quiet except for the hum of the commercial walk-in freezer and the soft, breathless sobs of Toby sitting on an overturned milk crate in the corner.
Mave knelt beside the boy, carefully inspect his shoulder. The heavy denim of his uniform jacket was shredded, but the fabric had absorbed the brunt of the impact. The skin beneath was badly bruised and scraped, but there were no deep puncture wounds.
"You're going to be okay, Toby," Mave said gently, applying an ice pack to his bruised collarbone. "The skin isn't broken deep. Wash it with antiseptic and get Arthur to send you home in a cab."
"He... he was going to kill me, Mave," Toby stuttered, his face still ghostly white. "That thing is a monster."
"He's not a monster. He's an animal that got scared," Mave said, though her own hands were still trembling slightly as she stood up. "Go home, kid. I'll finish closing up."
By 1:30 a.m., the Copper Anchor was completely dark except for the single yellow nightlight burning above the cash register. Arthur had fled the moment his shift ended, terrified that the rival gang or Gallagher's enforcers would return to turn the place into a shooting gallery.
Mave was alone in the main dining room, sweeping up the lingering bits of shattered glass from the carpet.
The heavy front door clicked.
Mave didn't startle. She had heard the quiet arrival of a high-end engine idling in the alleyway two minutes ago.
She leaned on her broom as the heavy oak door swung open, revealing the tall, broad silhouette of Declan Gallagher. He was alone this time. No enforcers, no guns on display, and no dog.
"We're closed, Mr. Gallagher," Mave said flatly, continuing to push her broom.
Gallagher stepped inside, his polished leather shoes making quiet, rhythmic clicks on the floorboards. He walked over to the alcove table—which had been set upright by Arthur before he left—and rested his large hands on the back of a chair.
"Brutus is sleeping in the back of the car," Gallagher said, his voice low and gravelly in the empty restaurant. "The vet looked him over. Said the alcohol didn't do any permanent damage to his nasal passages. Said if you hadn't used that exact technique, I would have had to put a bullet in my own dog to save that kid."
"Then I saved you a bullet," Mave replied, sweeping a pile of glass onto a metal dustpan. "You're welcome."
Gallagher didn't leave. He watched her work, his dirty-ice eyes tracking her swift, efficient movements.
"I asked around about you," Gallagher said softly. "Mave Vance. Twenty-seven years old. Working two jobs—here at night, cleaning offices in the morning. Living in a third-floor walk-up on 5th Street. Mother in a long-term care facility downtown."
Mave froze. A cold, dangerous spike of anger shot through her chest. She dumped the glass into a trash bin with a loud, metallic clatter and turned to face him, her eyes burning.
"Is that supposed to intimidate me?" Mave demanded, taking two strides toward him, entirely forgetting that she was standing three feet from a man who controlled half the docks in the city. "You run your background checks on waitresses who save your dog? What's the matter, Gallagher? Mad because I didn't bow down and take your cash handout?"
Gallagher didn't flinch at her outburst. In fact, a faint, almost invisible twitch touched the corner of his mouth—the closest thing to a smile she had seen on his rough face.
"I don't intimidate working women, Mave," he said quietly. "I run checks because in my line of work, people who don't flinch are either working for my enemies or they're rare."
"I'm neither," she snapped. "I'm just tired."
"I know," Gallagher said, and for a second, the harshness in his face softened into genuine, heavy exhaustion. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a clean, cream-colored business card with a dark embossed logo. He laid it flat on the table. "Brutus has a trainer. Three of them, actually. Top-tier, former military k-9 handlers. None of them can handle him when he goes red. You handled him in six seconds with a wet rag."
"Because I treated him like a dog, not a weapon," Mave countered.
"Exactly," Gallagher said. "I need someone who isn't afraid of him—and who isn't afraid of me. My estate outside the city has a full kennel facility. I want you to come work for me."
Mave let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You want me to be your dog handler? Are you out of your mind? I have a job."
"You have two jobs that are killing you," Gallagher corrected smoothly. "I'll pay you four times what you make here. Clear your mother's medical debt in three months. Full medical benefits, private living quarters on the estate, and no drunk politicians grabbing your waist in the back room."
Mave stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. Four times her salary. It was an absurd, life-changing amount of money.
"And what's the catch?" Mave asked, her voice dropping into a cautious whisper. "What else am I handling, Gallagher? Your dirty money? Your guns?"
Gallagher stepped closer, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the polished wood. "You handle the dog. You keep him calm when my world gets loud. That's it. No guns, no crime, no dirty work. You deal with the animal; I deal with the monsters."
Mave looked down at the cream-colored card on the table, then looked up into Gallagher's pale gray eyes. She saw the absolute truth in his offer—and the terrifying temptation of an escape route from her drowning life.
"I need to think about it," Mave said softly.
May you like
"Take until tomorrow night," Gallagher said, turning toward the door. "Brutus doesn't eat well without you around anyway."
He walked out into the cool night air, leaving Mave alone in the dark restaurant, holding the card that could either save her life or drag her straight into the abyss.
