Chapter 2 - The Taste of Sour Gin|
The catalyst for her ruin was a man named Donovan.
Donovan was a mid-level earner, a capo who mistook his marginal authority for godhood. He wore too much cologne, drank too much scotch, and looked at female staff members as if they were complimentary favors left in his room. The syndicate tolerated him because he moved a great deal of product through the docks, but the staff loathed him.
It happened at ten o’clock on a Tuesday. The estate was hosting a sprawling dinner party that functioned less as a social event than as a way to launder money and egos. Fay was carrying a tray of empty highball glasses through the eastern corridor toward the service stairs. Bass from the ballroom vibrated through the floorboards like a relentless heartbeat.
Donovan stepped out of the billiards room. He was swaying, his tie undone, his eyes glassy and bloodshot.
"Hey," he slurred, stepping directly into her path. "Bring a bottle of the Mallen to the guest suite."
"I’m sorry, sir," Fay said, keeping her voice even and her eyes fixed firmly on the knot of his loosened tie. "I’m on clearing duty. If you speak to the bartender—"
He did not let her finish. His hand shot out and closed around her upper arm with a grip that was shockingly tight. His fingers dug almost to the bone. The tray tilted violently, and crystal glasses slid together with a delicate musical clinking before two tipped over the edge and shattered on the hardwood floor.
"I didn’t ask the bartender," Donovan whispered, leaning closer. He smelled of sour gin and stale tobacco. "I asked you."
Fay pulled back instinctively. It was a visceral, stupid reaction to being cornered by a predator.
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"Let go of me," she demanded quietly.
His expression changed immediately. The drunken arrogance hardened into pure malice.
