Chapter 15 - The Quiet Room
An hour later, the police lights were gone, the alley was quiet once more, and the heavy iron doors of Halloway & Callaway Dining were locked tight against the Chicago wind.
The main dining room was dark save for a single amber sconce burning brightly over Table 4—the private dining room where this entire story had begun.
Ren stood inside the room, pouring two glasses of the 2012 Bordeaux from the reserve cellar. Her hands were steady, her posture relaxed, and her feet—fitted in comfortable, sturdy leather shoes—rested firmly on the Persian rug.
Ambrose Callaway sat at the head of the table, his suit jacket draped over the back of the leather chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He watched her with a look of absolute, unhurried peace.
Ren set a crystal glass down across from him, then pulled out the chair and sat down.
She looked across the table straight into his dark, steady eyes, and slowly, deliberately, she raised her hands.
The city is finally quiet, her fingers signed, the motion warm, fluid, and filled with a quiet joy that didn't need a single spoken word.
May you like
Callaway’s face broke into a rare, deep smile—the kind that reached all the way to his eyes, smoothing away the harsh lines of the scar on his cheek. He reached across the table, his long, scarred fingers gently intertwining with hers.
He didn't sign anything in response. He simply raised his glass in a quiet toast, letting the silence between them say everything that words never could.
