Chapter 9 #4
"Let. Go." Each word came out as a separate command, loud enough that nearby diners turned to stare.
"Stop making a scene," my mother hissed, glancing nervously at the watching patrons. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"No," I replied, looking directly into my father's furious eyes. "You're embarrassing yourselves."
"Problem here?"
The voice came from just behind my father's shoulder—quiet, controlled, but carrying an undercurrent of danger that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I didn't need to look to know who it belonged to.
My father's grip loosened slightly as he turned his head to find Razor standing beside our table, his presence commanding immediate attention despite his casual clothing.
Without the leather cut, without the visible trappings of his club affiliation, he might have passed for any other diner—except for the predatory stillness in his posture and the cold calculation in his eyes as they assessed the situation.
"This is a private family matter," my father said, his tone clipped but cautious. "I suggest you move along."
"My wife. My family." Razor's gaze dropped pointedly to where my father's fingers still circled my wrist. "So again—problem here?"
My mother's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You're him," she said, voice dripping with disdain. "The criminal she's been hiding with."
"The husband she's building a life with," Razor corrected, his tone conversational but his eyes never leaving my father's face. "The man who's asking you nicely—once—to release her."
The atmosphere at the table crackled with tension. I could see the calculations running behind my father's eyes—the public setting, the witnesses, the unknown quantity that Razor represented. His fingers slowly uncurled from my wrist, leaving angry red marks that would later bloom into bruises.
"We're simply concerned for our daughter and grandson," my mother said, shifting effortlessly back into her concerned parent persona for the benefit of onlookers. "This has all been a misunderstanding."
Razor's mouth curved into something too predatory to be called a smile. "No misunderstanding. Your daughter—my wife—said no. That's the end of the discussion."
I stood, moving to Razor's side, feeling his arm slide protectively around my waist. My father half-rose from his seat but froze when Razor's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a subtle change that somehow transformed him from casual diner to imminent threat without a single overtly aggressive move.
"This isn't over," my father said quietly, his eyes fixed on mine. "We have the legal documents prepared. One call to Judge Harrington—"
"Make your calls," Razor interrupted, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I'd heard only a few times before.
"But understand something. My family is protected.
By me. By my club. By her brother's club.
" His gaze flicked meaningfully to the two men in suits, who had started moving toward our table.
"Your hired help might want to reconsider whatever they're planning. They're already outnumbered."
As if on cue, I noticed Socket enter the restaurant, taking a position near the bar. Through the front windows, I could see Loch leaning against a motorcycle, watching the entrance with predatory focus.
My mother's face had gone pale beneath her perfect makeup. "This is exactly why Dante shouldn't be in your custody," she hissed. "Surrounding him with thugs and criminals, teaching him that violence is acceptable—"
"Teaching him that family protects family," I corrected, finding strength in Razor's solid presence beside me. "Teaching him that love doesn't come with conditions or controls."
I turned to leave, Razor's arm still around my waist, when my father made his final play.
"The money," he called after me, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear. "Is that what this is about? Has he convinced you to sign over your inheritance? Because if that's what he wants—"
Razor stopped, turning slowly back to face my parents. The look on his face must have been devastating because my father actually flinched.
"I didn't know about any inheritance until thirty seconds ago," Razor said, his voice deadly quiet. "Don't much care about it now. What I care about is Ophelia. Dante. Their safety. Their happiness." He pulled me closer to his side. "Something you never seemed to manage."
My mother's mouth opened, closed, opened again—for perhaps the first time in her life, speechless. My father's face had gone from red to white, his hand unconsciously moving toward the concealed weapon beneath his jacket.
"I wouldn't," Razor advised, his tone almost conversational. "Really wouldn't."
My father's hand stilled.
"We're leaving now," I said, finding my voice. "Don't call. Don't send lawyers. Don't try to contact Dante. If you want a relationship with us in the future, it will be on our terms, not yours."
I turned away from their stunned faces, Razor's arm steady around me as we walked through the restaurant. Socket fell in behind us, a protective formation that smoothly guided me toward the exit. Outside, Loch straightened as we emerged, his eyes continuously scanning for threats.
"You okay?" Razor asked quietly as we reached the sidewalk.
I looked back at Bellini's, at the restaurant where my parents had brought me countless times to maintain the illusion of a perfect family.
Through the window, I could see them still seated at their table, my father's face contorted with rage, my mother dabbing at her eyes with a napkin in a performance of distress for nearby patrons.
"I've never been better," I replied, and meant it.