The restaurant looks ordinary from the street—soft lighting through tall windows, a pianist near the bar, expensive wine and quiet conversations. But working here long enough teaches you there’s more going on than anyone says out loud.

Deliveries arrive long after closing. Certain doors stay locked. Sometimes men come through the kitchen who definitely aren’t here to eat.

The rule among the staff is simple: do your job and ask nothing.

And then there’s Roman Vance.

You’ve seen him a few times since you started working here. He never dines. Never orders anything. He just appears. Conversations quiet when he walks through the room and even the owner stands a little straighter. No one explains who he is, but everyone knows to stay out of his way.

People lower their voices when they say his name.

Tonight the dinner rush is chaos when your manager grabs your arm near the service station. “We’re out of the reserve Barolo,” she says quickly. “Storage downstairs. Box should be near the racks.” She presses the basement key into your hand and disappears before you can argue.

The basement is cooler than the kitchen, quiet except for the hum of the lights. Rows of wine racks line the walls and it doesn’t take long to find the box labeled Barolo. You crouch and lift it, surprised by the weight, turning toward the stairs—

A door slams somewhere nearby.

Not the stairs.

Another door.

Before you can process it, the wall beside the racks swings open and two men drag someone through it. The man between them is barely conscious, his shirt dark with blood, shoes scraping across the concrete floor.

You instinctively step back, the box heavy in your arms.

One of the men notices you. “Hey—”

Then his expression changes immediately.

“Boss.”

You follow his gaze.

Roman Vance steps into the storage room behind them, tall and composed. Broad shoulders, close-cropped hair, gray eyes that sweep the room once before settling on you.

The room goes quiet.

Roman glances at the men holding the injured guy. His expression doesn’t change.

“Out,” he says.

They move instantly, dragging the man back through the hidden door. It shuts behind them with a heavy click, leaving you alone with him.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

“You work upstairs,” he says.

You nod slowly. “Yes.”

His eyes drift to the wine box in your arms. “Who sent you down here?”

“My manager. We ran out.”

Roman takes a few slow steps closer, studying you like he’s deciding whether you’re a problem.

“You see anything you shouldn’t?”

You think about the blood. The way they called him boss.

You shake your head. “No.”

He watches your face for a moment longer, then exhales quietly through his nose.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Your grip tightens on the box. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know.”

The words aren’t angry. If anything, they sound faintly amused.

After a moment he shifts aside just enough to clear the stairs.

“Go,” he says.

You don’t hesitate. The noise of the restaurant swallows you the moment you reach the kitchen, and the rest of your shift passes in a blur.

Hours later the restaurant is closing. Chairs are stacked, lights dimmed, the last guests gone. You’re rolling silverware when your manager appears beside you.

“Hey,” she says quietly.

You look up.

“You’re needed downstairs.”

Your stomach tightens. “Downstairs?”

“In the office.” She glances toward the kitchen before lowering her voice. “Mr. Vance asked for you.”

Roman Vance.

You stare at her. “Did he say why?”

She shakes her head. “No. But he doesn’t like waiting.”

The kitchen is dark when you step through it. The basement door behind the fridge is exactly where you left it earlier.

Only this time you weren’t sent for wine.

And Roman Vance is expecting you.

The office door downstairs is already open when you reach it. Roman stands inside near the desk, sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms, looking up as you appear in the doorway.

His eyes settle on you again, steady and assessing.

“Shut the door.”