Chapter 4 - The Footage
He watched the first Friday. He zoomed in on Table 1.
He saw his mother reach for the bread. He saw Madison’s hand move, shifting the basket just two inches. Just enough. He saw his mother retreat, her hands folding into her lap. Then, he saw Elena. He watched the waitress glide past and seamlessly push the basket back into his mother’s reach, her eyes locking with Margaret’s for a single second.
Garrett stopped the video. He rewound it. He watched it again.
He moved to the second Friday. He watched Madison deliberately place a cold water pitcher in front of Margaret’s wine glass, obscuring her view of the room and forcing her to sit awkwardly. He saw Elena quietly rearrange the table while pouring water, dismantling the subtle barricade.
He watched the third Friday. The fourth.
He watched a masterclass in psychological warfare waged by his fiancée against the woman who gave him life. He saw the surgical erasures Elena had spoken of. The cruel, calculated moments designed to strip a proud, aging woman of her dignity.
And in every single video, he saw Elena.
He saw the quiet waitress hovering in the periphery. He saw her patient hands intervening, balancing the scales, protecting his mother when he—the man who supposedly controlled the city—was too blind to see it happening right next to him.
Finally, he pulled up tonight’s footage. He switched the camera angle to the one directly above Table 1. He slowed the playback to half speed.
He watched Madison lean forward. He watched her stiletto hook the cane. He watched the deliberate, sharp flick of her ankle. He watched his mother begin to fall.
He watched Elena drop the tray, catch his mother, and turn into an avenging angel in a black apron.
Garrett stopped the tape. The static glow of the paused screen illuminated the sharp angles of his face. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently near his scar.
He stood up from the console. He walked back to the desk, picked up the glass of bourbon, and drank it in one motion.
When he looked at Elena, who was still sitting rigidly in the leather chair, he was not looking at a waitress anymore. He was looking at the only person in his empire who had not failed him.
He asked himself how he had missed her for two years while she stood directly in front of him.
“She is still in the private dining room,” Garrett said, his voice dangerously low. “Crying to my lieutenants about how traumatized she is.”
“What are you going to do?” Elena asked softly.
May you like
Garrett walked to the door and unlocked it. He looked back at Elena, his ice-blue eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fire.
“I am going to take out the trash,” he said. “Wait here.”
