Chapter 2 - The Taste of Terror
The diner bell chimed when I pushed open the greasy glass door.
A stale cloud of old frying fat and commercial floor cleaner washed over us.
The waitress at the register gave Madison's stained clothes a look of utter disgust.
She was about to bark at her to leave until her eyes shifted to my face, my tailored navy suit, and the gold signet ring on my finger.
The woman’s expression turned instantly servile.
I guided Madison to a vinyl booth in the deepest corner, far from the street-facing windows.
She placed her heavy trash bag between her dirty sneakers, shielding it with her legs.
Her knuckles were raw, scraped pink across the joints.
"Order whatever you want," I said softly, sliding the plastic menu across the laminate table.
She didn't open the menu.
"A black coffee," she told the waitress without looking up.
"And a cinnamon roll."
"Bring two of every breakfast platter you have," I instructed the waitress, "and keep the coffee coming."
The waitress vanished in a hurry.
Madison picked up the napkin holder and inspected it before pulling out three paper squares.
She rested her hands flat against the table.
I noticed her fingernails were trimmed down to the skin, free of polish, cracked and bitten.
This was a woman who used to complain if her silk sheets weren't forty-ply thread count.
This was the woman who had walked away from our five-year marriage with nothing but a signature on a separation agreement.
She had vanished four years ago, refusing all calls, cutting off mutual acquaintances, leaving only a lawyer to handle the final filing.
I had assumed she hated my line of work.
I had convinced myself she had fallen for someone who didn't carry gun powder under their collar.
"You look terrible, Dominic," she whispered suddenly.
Her voice was hoarse, missing the crystalline clarity it used to have.
"Look at me?" I gave an incredulous scoff.
"I’m sitting across from a ghost who looks like she hasn't slept in an actual bed since the winter."
"I sleep fine," she lied.
The waitress brought the food, setting down steaming plates of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and a massive cinnamon roll glistening with sugar glaze.
Madison didn't dive in like a starving person.
She picked up a fork with calculated slowness.
She cut the cinnamon roll cleanly down the center.
She took one half, wrapped it meticulously inside a clean napkin, and tucked it into the pocket of her soiled jacket.
Saving the calories for tomorrow.
The sheer reality of that single motion hammered into my chest like a sledgehammer.
My throat constricted so severely I couldn't swallow my own saliva.
"Mads," I began, my voice thick with suppressed fury.
"When you signed the divorce decree, my attorneys wired four million into your private Chase account."
"The offshore trust in Grand Cayman held another five million."
"Your father’s foundation received an endowment to ensure his medical care until death."
"You had a master's degree in architectural design and three firms offering you partnerships."
"What happened to the money?"
Madison slowly chewed a small piece of pastry, looking sideways toward the blinds.
She didn't answer.
"Did someone rob you?"
"No."
"Did you gamble it?"
"You know I despise gambling, Dominic."
"Then where is it?" I leaned across the table, my hand coming down flat on the Formica.
"Did an extortionist take it?"
"If someone took a dollar from you, give me their name."
"I have men who will retrieve every cent before midnight, along with their fingers."
She let out a dry, cracked laugh that sounded devoid of any human joy.
"Still thinking bullets can fix everything, can't you?"
"They fix what threatens my household," I snarled.
"I am not your household anymore," she countered, looking me straight in the eyes.
For the first time, I saw the raw, pulsing current beneath her exhaustion.
It wasn't resentment.
It was cold, unadulterated, suffocating paranoia.
Her eyes kept flicking toward the glass entrance every time a car passed.
"You're being hunted," I realized out loud, my instincts taking over.
"I’m not hunted."
"You're jumping every time an engine revs on the street!"
"Don't yell at me," she pleaded, shrinking back against the vinyl bench.
"Then talk to me, Madison!"
Her lips trembled, and her gaze shifted from the window to my signet ring.
"You don't understand what you're asking," she whispered, her hands starting to shake so violently she had to set her fork down.
"Try me."
"You think your world is an iron fortress, Dominic."
"You sit on your leather throne believing everyone who bows to you loves you."
"You're an idiot."
Her words were venomous, but her tears were spilling freely now, cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
"Who took your life away, Madison?" I demanded, the tone of a Don slipping into my voice without my permission.
May you like
She pushed her plate away with a violent jerk that sent coffee sloshing over the saucer.
"Ask your own family!" she hissed.
