The waitress incident
Eli was returning to the mezzanine, climbing the black iron stairs that curved along the eastern wall, when she noticed it—a subtle ripple of discomfort near the main bar. The kind of disturbance most people missed, but that sent alarm bells ringing for anyone trained to watch crowds.
A man in an expensive suit, mid-forties, leaned far too close to a young waitress who couldn't have been more than twenty-two. His voice carried over the music, slurred with alcohol and entitlement. His hand clamped around her wrist, fingers digging in hard enough that Eli could see her wince from halfway across the room.
The girl tried to pull away without making a scene—trained to handle difficult customers with grace—but her eyes were wide, scanning for help that wasn't coming. Other staff had noticed but were frozen, unsure how to intervene without making things worse.
Albert shifted beside Eli, already stepping forward.
Eli raised a hand.
"Wait."
He paused, questioning but obedient.
She needed to see how far this would go. Needed to know which cracks in her operation were hers to fix—who would stand up, who would freeze, which customers would push boundaries. Information was power, and she was collecting it.
The man jerked the waitress closer, nearly pulling her off her feet. She stumbled against the bar, fear flashing into something harder—desperation, maybe even defiance.
That was enough.
Eli descended the stairs, her pace measured and deliberate. She didn't run. She didn't shout. She simply walked—and somehow the crowd parted for her without realizing they'd done so, bodies shifting like water around a stone.
"That's enough," Eli said when she was close enough to be heard without raising her voice. Calm, cold, edged sharp enough to cut bone. "Let her go."
The man turned, recognition dawning sluggishly. His gaze dropped to the Vale family ring on her right hand—the signet that marked her authority here.
For a heartbeat, Eli thought he might apologize.
Instead—monumentally stupid—he released the waitress and drew a compact pistol from his jacket. Chrome-plated, expensive, meant to impress. He pointed it directly at Eli's chest, hand steady despite the alcohol.
Several things happened at once.
Nearby patrons screamed and immediately smothered the sound, realizing noise might get them shot. The music pounded on, oblivious. Albert's hand flew to his own weapon. Security surged from all directions.
But Eli was faster.
She didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Didn't waste time on warnings.
She moved.
Her recently healed arm—the one Jason had broken—snapped out and caught the man's wrist. A quick twist redirected the barrel toward the floor. Her free hand hooked his thumb, found the pressure point, and wrenched with practiced precision.
The gun dropped cleanly into her hand as he howled and collapsed to one knee, wrist hyperextended.
In less than three seconds, Eli held the weapon.
She aimed it at him—not as a threat, but as a fact.
The club fell silent, or as silent as it could beneath the relentless bass. Every eye fixed on the scene. This moment would be retold a hundred times before morning.
Eli knew it. Used it.
"You're lucky I don't want blood on my floors," she said quietly. "It's expensive to clean. And it sends the wrong message to my other customers."
She flipped the pistol in her hand, offering it grip-first to security as they reached her.
"Escort him out. Strip him of any other weapons. Blacklist him from every Vale property in the city, effective immediately."
She hesitated just long enough for the words to sting. Her blue eyes were winter cold.
"And make sure his employer knows why. I want everyone to understand what happens when you threaten my staff."
Security hauled the man to his feet. He kept cursing, still too stupid to understand his luck as they dragged him toward the exit, expensive shoes scuffing the polished floor.
Eli turned to the waitress, who had pressed herself against the bar, pale and shaking.
"What's your name?" Eli asked, her tone softening.
"M-Melissa, Ms. Vale."
"You're done for the night, Melissa," Eli said. "Albert will get you home safely. Take tomorrow off—paid. Come back when you're ready."
Relief and gratitude warred on the girl's face.
"Thank you, Ms. Vale. Thank you so much."
"Thank me by being careful," Eli replied. "And if anyone else gives you trouble, you come straight to me or to Albert. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Melissa fled toward the staff hallway, Albert following to fulfill his promise.
As Eli climbed back toward the mezzanine with the same steady pace she'd descended, murmurs followed her—fear, awe, respect, and something else. Something like loyalty taking root.
Eli Vale protects her own.
No hesitation. No bluff. No mercy.
She disarmed him like it was nothing.
Did you see her face? Cold as ice.
I wouldn't cross her for anything.
Up on the mezzanine, Althea's lips curved into a small, proud smile. Roman watched the monitors with his usual clinical detachment—but even he couldn't hide the approval in his dark eyes.
Eli wasn't just running The Vault tonight.
She was imprinting herself on it—claiming it not through contracts or lineage but through action, through competence, through the kind of cold decisiveness that built empires.
Their father would have approved.
The thought tightened her chest, though she let none of it show.
Across the city, Jason drank alone at a bar.
He could still feel Eli's punch—the one that had cracked across his jaw and blurred his vision. Roman's silence afterward had hurt worse, the most damning judgment of all.
He had been the golden son once. Favored. Destined.
Now he was a footnote. A cautionary tale. The brother who'd lost control, broken the rules, been publicly humiliated—and survived only because Althea had mercy.
The bourbon burned going down, but nowhere near enough to cauterize the wound.
"She thinks she won," he muttered into the dim light, speaking to no one. Eli had been giving him hell ever since she'd accused him of being involved in Amy's death—but for some reason she'd kept it quiet, hadn't told the family. Whats the difference now? Was she smitten with Runa? Maybe. The girl was captivating.
"They all think it's over."
His phone buzzed on the mahogany table, loud in the silence.
Unknown number.
Jason stared at it, finger hovering. He knew—because he'd grown up in this world—that answering meant crossing a line. Opening a door he couldn't close. Making a choice that would define everything after.
The smart move was to delete it. Accept his reduced place. Rebuild slowly.
But Jason was drunk, angry, and tired of being smart.
He opened the message.
You want leverage?
His pulse kicked, adrenaline slicing through the alcohol fog. Whoever this was, they knew things. Had access. Could offer him what he craved most—a way back into the game. Redemption. Revenge. Or something darker.
His thumbs moved before his judgment could stop him.
Talk.
The reply came almost instantly:
Tomorrow. Pier 7. Midnight. Come alone.
He read it twice, committing the details to memory. Already planning how to ditch his security. Already imagining what he'd gain. What damage he could do.
Jason poured another drink—deeper than the last.