The gin was the tell. Trent only drank gin when he wanted an excuse. It made his eyes look like dirty glass, and it made him brave in the way that cowards get brave — loud, and certain, and entirely without aim.

Gemma didn't hesitate. She grabbed her leather clutch off the booth, her knees shaking so badly she nearly stumbled as she slid out from the table.

"Gemma! Wait, Gemma, don't be stupid!" Trent stammered, his bravado entirely vanished, replaced by sheer panic as he realized he was about to be left alone at the mercy of a legend. "Don't leave me here! Tell this gentleman it's just a misunderstanding—"

She didn't look back. She pushed through the heavy mahogany doors of Valyrius and stepped out into the crisp autumn night air. The city lights blurred through a fresh wave of hot tears as she ran down the pavement toward the subway station.

She was free. For the first time in two agonizing years, she was away from his toxic grip, away from the bruises, away from the constant, suffocating dread. But as she descended the concrete stairs into the subterranean depths of the transit system, a cold realization settled into her chest: Trent still had her keys. Her apartment was locked. Her clothes, her identification, her small savings—everything she owned was inside that apartment. And sooner or later, Trent was going to come home.

Meanwhile, back inside Valyrius, the atmosphere had plunged below freezing.

Vincent Moretti remained seated in his booth, calmly swirling the remaining amber liquid in his glass. He hadn't stood up. He hadn't raised his voice. Yet Trent was standing paralyzed, pinned to the spot by sheer psychological terror.

Two massive men in tailored black suits — Vincent's personal security detail — stepped out from the shadows near the bar and flanked Trent’s side of the table, their massive shoulders blocking any path of escape.

"Mr... Mr. Moretti, please," Trent whimpered, his voice cracking pathetically. "I didn't mean anything by it. It was just couple's talk! You know how women push your buttons—"

Vincent finally looked up. His eyes were like chips of black flint.

"I know a lot of things, son," Vincent said quietly. "I know how a coward behaves when he thinks nobody is watching. I know what a man looks like when he preys on someone weaker than himself."

"I'll leave!" Trent blurted out, tears of humiliation springing to his eyes. "I'll pack my bags, I'll leave the apartment, I swear to God I won't go near her again! Just... please let me walk out of here."

Vincent signaled with a slight nod of his head. The two massive bodyguards stepped forward, each grabbing one of Trent’s biceps in a grip of solid iron. They didn't punch him; they didn't make a scene. They simply lifted him off his feet with effortless strength, turning him toward the service exit.

"You'll leave, yes," Vincent said, leaning back in his booth as the manager frantically handed him a fresh linen napkin. "And you won't ever step foot in this city again. If I hear your name whispered within fifty miles of my downtown, my men won't just talk to you."

They dragged Trent backward through the swinging doors, his expensive Italian leather shoes scraping helplessly against the polished floor.

Vincent watched them go, picking up his fork to finish his meal. But as he looked down at his plate, his thoughts drifted back to the young woman with the terrified eyes and the bruised wrist. He signaled his head of security, a scarred veteran named Marcus, who stepped out from the shadows.

"Marcus," Vincent said softly.