As I moved deeper into the room, the acoustic landscape shifted. The casual dining chatter faded, replaced by the guttural, low-frequency rumble coming from the back booths.
The Russians were here.
The Silver Table was my father's legacy, his pride and joy. The dream he'd built from nothing, brick by brick, table by table. He’d fought for this place, sweating over ledgers and arguing with suppliers until it became the kind of establishment where Austin's elite made reservations months in advance. It was supposed to be his retirement. It was supposed to be my inheritance.
Instead, it was a mausoleum I visited every night.
I could still feel the phantom sensation of the old back office, the air thick with the smell of receipt paper and lemon polish. That’s where he’d crammed the battered upright piano, wedged between overflowing filing cabinets and boxes of crisp linens. I remembered the weight of his hands—calloused, warm, an impossibly large—guiding my small ones across the yellowed keys. He’d press against my back, a solid wall of safety I hadn’t realized was temporary.
"Feel it, Raven," he’d murmur, his voice a low rumble vibrating through his chest and into my spine. "Music isn't heard. It's felt. It has weight. Texture. Close your eyes and let your fingers find the truth."
He thought he was teaching me art. He didn't know he was training me for survival.
He couldn't have known that headlights would blind us, that metal would scream, and that I'd wake up in a world permanently stripped of light.
The irony of it all wasn't lost on me. He'd prepared me for the darkness, taught me to see without eyes, to read the vacuum-sealed silence of a room before a single word was spoken.
Now, I used those lessons to navigate the floorboards he’d practically laid by hand. But I wasn't playing for him anymore. I was the helpless, tragic blind girl, put on display for the men who had swooped in to pick the meat off his bones.
His beloved restaurant was a nothing but a front for the Bratva. I knew it. Hell, everyone knew it, though no one said it. The new owners, a conglomerate called 'Vostok Holdings,' paid well andtipped better, but the men who sat in the corner booth weren't there for the stroganoff.
I cataloged their voices as I passed.
The Wheeler-Dealer: Wheezing laugh, smells of cheap cigars.
The Enforcer: Rarely speaks, heavy breathing, the creak of leather shoulder holsters.
And Viktor: The one I thought of as the shark.
I felt the air shift as I neared the piano and smelled mint and vanilla. I didn't have to see him to know Viktor was standing there.
He stood directly in my path to the bench, and he didn't move out of my way when I stopped, the tip of my cane just grazing his expensive Italian loafers. I knew the kind of shoes he wore because I'd overheard one of the waitstaff talking about his expensive taste in footwear once.
"Evening, Raven," he said. His accented voice was smooth, like gravel tumbling in oil. Some women would find it sexy, and I might too if I didn't know who he really was and who he worked for.
"Viktor," I nodded, keeping my chin up but my eyes unfocused. "You're blocking my instrument."
"An artist needs her box," he mused, but he didn't move. "I saw you left late last night," he said. It wasn't a question.
My pulse spiked, but I forced my breathing to remain even. I was a performer. And this was just another stage.
"Did I? The set ran long. The couple at table four requested Clair de Lune three times." I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze drift past him toward nothing.
"You went out the back."
"I always do. The bus stop is closer that way," I lied effortlessly. Itwascloser, but if I didn't have my sneakers I took the front to avoid the trash. "Why the interest in my commute? Worried I'll get mugged?"
He laughed quietly. "No. But I was wondering if you happened to hear anything back there? Anything... unusual?"
The pause before 'unusual' was heavy. He was weighing me.
I imagined the blood on my shoe. The silence. The feeling of eyes on me.
I smiled, a vapid, innocent curve of lips. A mask I'd perfected after coming back to work here. They had no idea who lived behind these useless eyes. "Hear anything? Just the dumpster cats fighting. And I think a garbage truck was backing up a few streets over. Why? Did I miss some kind of excitement?"
I tilted my head, offering him my blind profile. I knew exactly what he saw: a helpless woman in a red dress with vacant eyes and a cane. A doll. Nothing more than a puppet who entertained on cue.
Viktor was quiet for exactly five seconds. Then I heard the fabric of his suit rustle as he leaned in, his minty breath ghosting over my face. "Just be careful in the alley at night, Raven. It's not safe for someone like you. Too many shadows."
