Chapter 3 - A SURPRISING ACT OF KINDNESS
Without waiting for permission, the stranger pushed open the low wooden counter door and stepped into the employee area.
Normally, Alina would have backed away or demanded he leave—customers were strictly forbidden behind the counter. But there was something about the absolute authority in his calm presence that made her stand still.
"Where is your first-aid kit?" he asked softly.
Alina pointed a trembling finger toward the small metal box mounted beside the kitchen door.
The man walked over, unhooked the kit, and brought it back to the counter. He set it down, opened the plastic latches with practiced efficiency, and pulled out a tube of burn cream and a package of sterile gauze.
"May I?" he asked, looking into her eyes. He was waiting for her consent.
Alina swallowed hard and gave a small nod.
He stepped closer. The scent of rain, expensive tobacco, and sandalwood washed over her, completely erasing the awful stench of whiskey and sweat left behind by Carl. The stranger raised his hands. His fingers were long, manicured, and steady.
He reached for the top buttons of her uniform. Alina flinched slightly out of instinct.
"I am only going to open the collar so I can treat the burn," he murmured gently, his eyes fixed on hers, ensuring she felt safe. "Nothing more. I give you my word."
He carefully unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shapeless yellow shirt, pulling the wet, hot fabric away from her skin. A nasty red patch covered her upper chest, running up toward her collarbone.
He squeezed a cool dollop of white ointment onto his fingers and gently applied it to her inflamed skin. His touch was feather-light, shockingly tender for a man who had just snapped a man’s wrist without blinking.
Alina let out a soft sigh as the cooling sensation hit her raw skin. "Thank you," she whispered.
"He should not have laid a hand on you," the man said, his voice dropping an octave. "No one has the right to treat you like that."
He carefully laid a piece of gauze over the burn and secured it with medical tape. Once he was finished, he reached for her wrists. He gently lifted them, examining the faint red marks left behind by Carl’s brutal grip.
"He hurt your wrist as well," he noted, his dark eyes darkening further.
"It's just bruised," Alina said quickly. "I'll be fine. Really. I'm used to dealing with drunks."
"You shouldn't have to be used to it," he replied flatly. He picked up his clean handkerchief and gently wiped the coffee residue off her hands. "A woman with your grace deserves to be protected, not subjected to the garbage of this city."
Alina looked up, catching his intense gaze. Up close, she could see tiny silver flecks in his dark eyes. "Why did you help me? You could have just walked out. Men like you don't get involved in diner brawls."
The man smiled faintly—a rare, genuine expression that softened the harsh, lethal angles of his face. "Men like me appreciate quiet routine. For the past month, coming here every Tuesday and Thursday has been the only peaceful hour of my week. You make good coffee, you don't ask annoying questions, and you work harder than anyone I know."
He stepped back, giving her space, and closed the first-aid kit.
"My name is Victor," he said, holding out his hand. "Victor Vance."
Alina hesitated before taking his hand. His grip was warm and firm. "Alina. Alina Vance—wait, no, Alina Reed," she stammered, blushing furiously at her own slip of the tongue.
Victor let out a low, rich chuckle that sent a strange shiver down her spine. "A pleasure to officially meet you, Alina Reed."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick leather wallet, and extracted a stack of hundred-dollar bills. He laid them cleanly on the counter next to the cash register.
"What is this?" Alina asked, staring at the money. There had to be at least two thousand dollars sitting there.
"Payment for the damage," Victor said simply. "For the broken mug, the mess on the floor, and for your ruined uniform."
"This is way too much! A uniform costs twenty bucks!"
"Consider the rest a tip," Victor replied, taking his dark overcoat off the back of his booth and draping it over his broad shoulders. "And a small compensation for a terrible night."
He walked toward the front door, pausing with his hand on the brass handle. He turned back to look at her one last time. "Go home early, Alina. Tell your manager I paid for the night."
Before she could object, he pushed the door open and vanished into the rainy night.
Alina stood alone in the diner, staring at the thick stack of bills on the counter. She picked up the obsidian card Carl had dropped on the floor. It felt heavy, made of solid metal. On it was printed a single name and a phone number:
VICTOR VANCE
Vance Enterprises
May you like
She didn't know it yet, but Victor Vance wasn't just a businessman in an expensive suit. He was the undisputed king of the city's underground hierarchy—a man the police feared, the mayor courted, and the mob obeyed.
And Carl had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
