Page 2 of Claimed By the Boss

“The lady said no,” the man says. His voice is cool. Russian-accented. Deadly calm.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

The room goes silent. Even the pianist stops playing.

“Let’s not make a scene,” he adds.

It’s far too late for that.

The mysterious man releases him. Mr. Slicked Hair collapses into his seat, choking and red-faced. His friends grab their coats and drag him out, tossing a wad of cash on the table like that makes it better.

I stand there frozen, my heart racing from the action that unfolded so quickly in front of me.

The man straightens his cufflinks, as if he didn’t just choke someone in the middle of a Michelin-starred dining room and walks back to his table without looking at me.

That’s when I notice his suit. It’s midnight black and impeccably tailored to compliment his obviously very fit stature. He sits across from an older man eating steak like nothing happened.

I don’t know whether to be shaken or impressed.

I exhale hard and head straight to the service station. My hands are shaking, but I keep moving and grab a water pitcher, looking to see if anyone in my range of view needs a refill. I need something to do. Anything.

Cindy rounds the corner, eyes wide. “What the hell just happened?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, even though my pulse is still sprinting. “Handled.”

“You sure? Because Mr. Cold War over there looked like he was about to snap that guy in half.”

I glance across the dining room. He’s back at his table, calm as ever, sipping red wine like nothing happened. His companion, who is older with salt-and-pepper hair, doesn’t even glance up. It’s like this is normal for them.

And maybe it is. Rich people could lead impossibly weird lifestyles.

I refill a couple of water glasses and loop back around my section. The table where it all went down is now cleared and reset, thanks to a busboy who saw it all go down with wide eyes and fast hands. The tip the bros left is still sitting there, a fat wad of twenties.

And a business card.

I pocket the card without thinking, planning to toss it later. But as I pass the man’s table, something makes me slow.

His eyes lift to mine.

Cool. Assessing. Striking.

I hesitate for half a breath, then cross to his table, ignoring the way my heart thumps harder with every step.

“Hi,” I say quietly. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say thank you.”

He watches me for a beat, then nods. “You’re welcome.”

The accent is real. Russian. Clipped, elegant. He could probably kill someone with a dinner knife and not wrinkle his suit.

“You didn’t have to step in,” I add.

He raises a brow. “Didn’t I?”

I bite back a smile. “I had it under control.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Of course you did.”

A pause stretches between us. He glances at the name tag on my apron.