Chapter 4 - The Midnight Caller
We got off the train three neighborhoods north, ducking into a 24-hour diner that smelled of fried onions and old coffee. It was quiet—just a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter and an old man dozing in a vinyl booth near the back.
We slid into a corner booth, ordering two bowls of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Mikey ate quietly, his movements cautious, still checking the front door every time the bell above it jingled.
“You need to rest after this, Mikey,” I said, sliding half my sandwich onto his plate. “We’ll find a motel outside the city. Just for a few days, until I can figure out—”
Trring.
The diner bell chimed.
I looked up, expecting a late-night trucker or a tired nurse coming off a double shift.
Instead, two men in identical dark overcoats walked through the door. They didn't look around. They didn't scan the room for a table. Their eyes locked straight onto our corner booth with terrifying precision.
My spoon clattered against the ceramic bowl.
“Mikey,” I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Don't look up. Keep eating.”
It was too late.
One of the men—not Marco, but someone taller, broader, with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow—pulled out a silver badge and flashed it briefly at the terrified waitress behind the counter. She dropped her dishcloth and backed away toward the kitchen without a word.
The two men stopped at the edge of our booth.
“Miss Clara Carter,” the scarred man said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that cut through the hiss of the diner’s grease grill. “And young Master Michael. Mr. Cross has been expecting you.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, standing up sharply, putting myself between the men and Mikey. My voice shook, but I forced my feet to stay planted. “Call the police. I’m reporting you for harassment.”
The man with the scarred eyebrow let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Police, Miss Carter? In this district? The precinct commander is having dinner at Mr. Cross’s estate tonight. Do you really think anyone in this city is going to intervene because a waitress decided to kidnap a billionaire’s heir?”
“I didn't kidnap him!” I snapped. “He was starving behind my diner!”
“And now he is coming home,” a new voice said.
The temperature in the diner seemed to drop ten degrees.
The two men stepped aside, parting like curtains on a stage.
A man walked through the diner doors, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
He didn't wear a heavy winter coat like his guards. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, an open-collared dress shirt, and a dark wool overcoat draped loosely over his broad shoulders. He was tall, striking, with sharp, predatory cheekbones, dark hair touched with silver at the temples, and eyes the color of a winter storm.
Alexander Cross.
He didn't look angry. That was what terrified me the most. There was no shouting, no red-faced rage. Just an absolute, bone-chilling calm that radiated pure, untouchable authority.
He walked slowly across the linoleum floor, his polished shoes clicking against the tiles, until he stood right in front of our booth.
He didn't look at me at first. His dark eyes bypassed me entirely, locking onto his son.
“Michael,” Alexander said softly.
Mikey flinched, shrinking back against the vinyl seat, his small hands curling into tight fists. “I hate that house, Dad. I’m not going back.”
May you like
Alexander stopped. A flicker of something raw and agonizing crossed his striking features—gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced once more by the mask of the sovereign.
Then, finally, Alexander turned his storm-gray eyes onto me.
