Page 5 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

four

Alina

T he candlelight flickers across the gleaming silverware as I straighten my napkin for the third time.

Gary Danko hums with elegant conversation and the soft clink of crystal glasses.

David sits across from me, his smile reaching his eyes when he laughs at my story about chasing down a city council member for a quote.

"So this politician literally hid in a porta-potty to avoid your questions?"

I nod, taking a sip of the champagne. "For seventeen minutes. I timed it. His aide finally had to rescue him when I started interviewing waiting construction workers about 'suspicious activity in the portable facilities.'"

His laughter is warm, genuine. It ripples through me, melting some of the ice I've built around myself.

When was the last time I actually dressed up for someone? Let myself feel this flutter of anticipation ?

Mom's voice echoes in my head from our Sunday call: "Sweetheart, not every man is investigating you for a story. Sometimes a handsome lawyer asking you to dinner is just... a handsome lawyer asking you to dinner."

I study David's face as he signals for another round of drinks. He's objectively gorgeous—salt and pepper at his temples, intelligent eyes, easy confidence. The black dress I chose tonight feels both like armor and invitation.

"You look miles away suddenly," David notes, leaning forward. His cologne is subtle, expensive. "Am I boring you with legal precedents?"

"Not at all. Just... processing."

"Processing what?" His fingertips brush mine on the table. The contact sends warmth up my arm.

Processing how badly this could end. How I don't know if I can do this again.

"Processing that I'm actually enjoying myself." I offer him a smile, genuine but guarded. "My work doesn't leave much room for... this."

The memory of my last relationship surfaces uninvited. Michael, fellow journalist, charming and driven. Six months of connection before discovering he'd sold out a source—risked someone's life—for a career advancement. The betrayal was professional and personal. Complete.

"Your work is important," David says, interrupting my thoughts. "But so is living, Alina."

His hand covers mine completely now. I don't pull away.

"My mother said something similar recently," I chuckle.

"Smart woman. "

"She is. Raised me in a newspaper office and taught me to question everything."

"Everything?" His eyebrow arches playfully.

"Especially men who look at me the way you're looking at me right now." The words slip out, braver than I feel.

David's laugh is rich. He leans closer, the space between us charged with possibility. "And how am I looking at you?"

"Like you're reading between my lines."

For a moment, we're suspended in this perfect tension. His eyes, warm and focused solely on me, create a bubble where my constant vigilance quiets. The restaurant fades around us. My shoulders relax a fraction.

Maybe I can do this. Maybe there's space for something beyond the investigation, beyond Jenny's case, beyond the constant running.

"Excuse me for a minute?" David gestures toward the restrooms. "Don't solve any major conspiracies while I'm gone."

He weaves between tables, and I admire the confident set of his shoulders in his tailored suit.

Alone, I exhale slowly, tracing the stem of my champagne flute. Mom's voice comes back to me, "Sometimes the hardest stories to investigate are our own, Alina. Not everyone deserves your suspicion."

I've built walls so high I can barely see over them myself. Every relationship categorized as a potential risk. Every connection weighed against what it might cost me professionally.

When did I become so afraid?

My gaze drifts across the restaurant, taking in happy couples, business associates, friends. Ordinary people enjoying their everyday lives. None of them scanning exits or checking for hidden threats.

A strange detachment settles over me, like I'm suddenly watching myself from outside my body. Sitting here in this expensive restaurant, playing at normalcy, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because something doesn't feel right. Not about David specifically, but about... everything. This perfect evening, this attempt at connection—it feels like I'm waiting for it all to unravel.

The knot in my chest tightens as I glance toward the restrooms. David's been gone for almost ten minutes now. I grab my phone, pretending to check something important when really, I'm just measuring time.

This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager.

A waiter passes with a tray of desserts that look like tiny works of art. The couple at the next table leans in, whispering and laughing. I shift in my seat, suddenly hyperaware of being alone at a table set for two.

Maybe I should text him?

No. That would look desperate. I'm an award-winning journalist who's faced down corrupt politicians and corporate criminals. I don't need to check on a grown man who knows where the bathroom is.

My phone vibrates against the white tablecloth. A message from David lights up the screen.

" I'm so sorry, Alina. Emergency with a client. Have to leave immediately. Check is already paid. I'll call you. "

I read it twice, blinking at the words that don't change no matter how hard I stare.

That's it?

The disappointment hits like a physical blow. I set the phone down and take a deliberate sip of wine, trying to look unbothered for absolutely no one's benefit. The rich cabernet tastes like ash now.

He couldn't even come back to the table to say goodbye?

My fingers tap against the stem of the flute. I'd actually allowed myself to feel something tonight. To wonder if maybe there could be space in my life for something beyond work and grief and suspicion.

Jenny's face flashes in my mind. Her bright smile in the newsroom the day before she disappeared. The way she'd teased me about needing to "get a life outside that filing cabinet." The cold, hollow feeling when I identified her body.

Is this my punishment for trying to move forward? For thinking I deserve something good?

I drain the last of my wine, the liquid burning a path down my throat. The restaurant continues its elegant dance around me—servers gliding between tables, the soft murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. Normal people living normal lives.

This is exactly why I don't do this.

I gather my purse and stand, smoothing down the black dress I'd been so careful selecting. The dress that made me feel beautiful for the first time in months. What a waste.

"Can I get you anything else, ma'am?" A server appears at my elbow with practiced timing.

"No, thank you. I was just leaving."

I navigate through the restaurant with my chin up, ignoring the curious glances from diners watching a woman leave alone in a dress meant for someone else's eyes. The bitter fog rolls in from the bay outside, wrapping around the streetlights like gauze. Perfect. Weather to match my mood.

Don't let this derail you, Bennett. It's just dinner. Just a man.

But it wasn't just dinner. It was a rare crack in my armor. A moment of vulnerability I can't afford.

I push through the heavy glass door, ready to disappear into the night and forget this evening ever happened. A solid figure brushes past me in the entrance, the unexpected contact jarring me from my thoughts.

I stumble back, steadying myself on the door frame as I look up at the wall of a man I've collided with. His shoulder alone is wider than both of mine combined.

Damn . I blink twice, trying to process what my eyes are seeing.

The restaurant lighting catches on his features like it's studying architecture—hard angles and deliberate lines that shouldn't work together but somehow create something... magnificent.

His jawline is sharp and angular, framed by a hint of stubble that catches the golden light. He's tall—absurdly tall—with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the kind of build that makes every woman in the room secretly track his movements.

My reporter's brain starts cataloging details automatically.

The expensive cut of his custom leather jacket that looks completely out of place yet somehow works perfectly in this upscale restaurant.

His posture radiates authority, the unmistakable bearing of someone accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question.

And his eyes—piercing, intelligent, and focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes my skin heat.

My breath catches in my throat. Something about him feels... familiar? But I would remember meeting someone like him. No one forgets a man who occupies space like he owns it.

"I—" My voice betrays me, refusing to form words.

He doesn't speak either. Just looks down at me with those impossible eyes, a slight furrow between his brows. The crowd in the restaurant continues to move around us, but we're suspended in this moment, like time operates differently within our small bubble of space.

His gaze travels over my face, not in the evaluating way men often look at women, but with a strange intensity that feels like he's memorizing every detail. A curious half-smirk lifts one corner of his mouth, maybe as an apology for our collision?

My heart hammers against my ribs. What is wrong with me? I interview corrupt officials and confront dangerous people for a living. One attractive stranger shouldn't leave me speechless.

But there's something more coming from him that goes beyond his physical size. An energy that feels like tightly controlled power. Authority without needing to demand it.

His scent catches me—subtle notes of sandalwood and something woodsy that makes me want to lean closer despite myself. The black dress suddenly feels too tight, too revealing under his steady gaze.

Stop staring and say something, Bennett.

"Excuse me," I finally manage, hating how breathless I sound.

He doesn't reply verbally. Instead, he gives a single, measured nod that somehow conveys both acknowledgment and something else, almost like recognition, though that's impossible.

My curiosity kicks in, questions bubbling up. Who are you? What do you do that gives you that confidence? Why do I feel like I've seen you before? Why am I still standing here?

Our eyes remain locked for another beat. The tension between us pulses like something alive, drawing me toward him despite all my carefully constructed walls. His expression shifts subtly, still serious, but now with something that looks almost like a challenge in those blue depths.

My lips part to say something—anything—to break this spell.

But he steps aside with unexpected grace for someone his size and moves past me into the restaurant, taking all that intensity with him.

The fog swallows me as I step fully outside, leaving me with the strange, hollow feeling that something important just slipped through my fingers.

I stand rooted to the sidewalk, staring into the swirling fog where that blue-eyed stranger disappeared. My skin feels electrically charged, every nerve ending still humming from our brief encounter.

"What the hell just happened?" I whisper to myself.

David's text message burns in my memory. The perfect evening shattered by twelve impersonal words. And now this—this inexplicable moment with a stranger that somehow feels more significant than the entire date.

Get it together, Bennett.

I dig my phone from my purse, scrolling past David's message with a quick swipe of my thumb. My fingers hover over my screen as I contemplate my next move.

The gnawing frustration that's been building all night crystallizes into a hard knot of determination. I stuff my phone back in my bag, remembering my car is parked just two blocks away in the restaurant lot.

No. I'm not going home to lick my wounds.

The warehouse. The mysterious electricity usage. The fresh tire tracks and too-new security system. All those pieces waiting to be connected.

Jenny would have gone back.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. Jenny wouldn't have walked away from an investigation unfinished. She wouldn't have let herself get distracted by intense blue eyes or disappointing dates.

I pull up Detective Wilson's contact and press call.

"Bennett." His voice is gruff, surprised. "It's almost eleven."

"I need to talk to you about the old Apex Solutions warehouse in Hunter's Point."

A pause. "What about it?"

"I was there a couple of weeks ago. It's not abandoned. Someone's using it. Someone with resources."

"Jesus, Alina." I can hear him shifting, probably sitting up in bed. "Tell me you didn't break in."

"I'm going back tonight."

"Like hell you are." His voice takes on that authoritative tone cops use when they think you'll actually listen. "That area is dangerous enough during daylight hours."

"I was interrupted. I need to see what they're hiding. "

"Interrupted? By who?" The concern in his voice sharpens to alarm. "Bennett, what did you do?"

"Someone was there. Professional. Military trained, maybe."

"And you want to go back? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

I pace along the sidewalk, my heels clicking against concrete. "I can handle myself. Carlos made sure of that."

"Carlos taught you self-defense, not how to take on professional security."

"I'm not asking permission, James." My voice hardens. "I'm telling you as a courtesy. You can help or not."

The silence stretches, filled only with his frustrated breathing. Finally, he sighs. "Give me forty-five minutes. I'll meet you there. Don't go in without me. Promise me, Alina."

Relief loosens the tension in my shoulders. "I promise. Thank you."

"Don't thank me for enabling your death wish." He pauses. "Be careful getting there. And Bennett? Next time, maybe call before you decide to break into suspicious warehouses."

I hang up, satisfaction warming my chest. This—this is what I need. Action. The familiar surge of adrenaline that comes with chasing a story that matters.

I drop my phone back into my purse and lift my chin. The fog has thickened, wrapping the street in ghostly tendrils. As I turn toward the valet stand, something makes me freeze.

A shadow against the restaurant wall… there one moment, gone the next. The fine hairs on my arms stand up .

Carlos's voice echoes in my head, "Trust your instincts, Alina. Your body knows danger before your mind does."

Someone's watching me.