Chapter 2 - The 8:55 Execution
"Evie, what the hell are you doing?"
Gilbert’s voice hissed like a strike of a match behind her neck, his sweaty fingers digging into the flesh of her bicep. The pain spiked through her shoulder, sharp and grounding, cutting through the high-pitched hum vibrating in her skull.
Evelyn didn't blink. The digital clock above the bar blinked over to 8:52 PM.
Three minutes. Three minutes separated her hollow, invisible survival from an open grave in an alley off the Chicago River.
"I spilled wine on the tablecloth," she whispered, her vocal cords scraping together like dry sandpaper. She kept her face completely blank, smoothing her white apron with mechanical precision. "I have to replace the linen before Mr. Moretti notices."
Gilbert's gaze snapped to the crimson stain blooming across Table Four like a fresh stab wound. His face drained of color, his grip dropping instantly. "Fix it. Don't speak. Don't look him in the eye. If he takes offense, he won't just fire you—he'll tear this building down with us inside it."
Evelyn didn't wait for him to finish. She palmed the folded, lipstick-stained napkin deep in her left fist and grabbed a fresh linen square with her right.
The dining room felt stretched, elongated like a nightmare corridor where every step took an eternity. The Obsidian's playlist was a soft, melancholic jazz piece, masking the clatter of silver against porcelain. Beneath the melody, Evelyn could hear the rhythmic, imperceptible countdown of her own racing heart.
Celeste Vane was laughing—a bright, crystalline sound that sounded like shattering glass. Her diamond-encrusted fingers rested casually near her clutch. Evelyn saw the tiny twitch of her wrist. A second signal.
Position confirmed.
Lorenzo sat immovable. The ambient light of the chandelier fractured across the sharp contours of his jaw and cheekbones. He radiated an oppressive, gravitational pull. Approaching him felt like stepping onto the event horizon of a black hole.
Evelyn stepped to his left side. The air surrounding him carried the scent of crushed cedar, expensive tobacco, and an underlying trace of cold ozone.
She leaned down, unfolding the fresh white linen to drape over the dark wine stain. Her loose tendrils of brown hair brushed against the shoulder of his bespoke charcoal suit. Lorenzo didn't turn his head, but she saw the shift in his peripheral vision. His pupils, black and bottomless, fixed onto her tremor.
With a flick of her wrist, Evelyn slipped the crumpled cocktail napkin beneath the base of his crystal glass.
His eyes tracked the motion.
He didn't move. He didn't gasp. He simply read the ragged crimson scrawl pressed flat against the dark wood of the table:
Your fiancée set a trap. Don't use north exit.
8:54 PM.
Lorenzo’s hand moved smoothly, wrapping his long, calloused fingers around the crystal stem, obscuring the paper entirely. A faint, razor-sharp smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He turned to Celeste, his tone dropping into a smooth, hypnotic purr. "You look radiant tonight, my love. That emerald gown suits you."
Celeste smiled back, her eyes flickering toward the mirrored glass of the north corridor. "I told you tonight would be memorable, Lorenzo."
"Unforgettable," he murmured.
8:55 PM.
The north entrance didn't just open; it detonated.
The floor-to-ceiling glass shattered inward in a tidal wave of crystalline shrapnel. Automatic gunfire tore through the dining room, deafening, relentless, and violent. Plaster exploded off the columns. Screams erupted as patrons scrambled like animals, tables flipping and crystal disintegrating under high-caliber rounds.
The hit squad came in heavy, aiming a sustained barrage of lead straight at the head of Table Four.
Where Lorenzo had been sitting a split second prior.
Before Evelyn could even scream, an iron hand clamped around her throat and yanked her violently downward.
Her back slammed against the cold marble beneath the table, the wind knocked clean out of her lungs. Lorenzo dropped over her like a wall of solid armor, shielding her entire frame with his broad back. Wood splinters and hot copper cascaded around them.
Evelyn gasped, her fingers digging instinctively into the lapels of his suit jacket. His chest pressed hard against hers; she could feel the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heart. He was terrifyingly calm.
"Keep your head down," he commanded into her ear, his voice dark, velvety, and completely devoid of fear.
He drew a matte-black customized Beretta from his shoulder holster with one fluid stroke. Above them, Celeste was already gone, hustled through the kitchen fire exit flanked by her private guards.
"Matteo! Suppressive fire, south corridor!" Lorenzo barked.
Matteo, his mammoth enforcer, returned fire with brutal efficiency, dropping two masked attackers near the hostess stand.
Lorenzo grabbed Evelyn by the waistband of her apron and dragged her upward in one motion. "Move."
"I can't—"
"You run, or you bleed out on this floor. Pick."
He hauled her through the war zone. Glass crunched beneath their shoes. Evelyn stumbled over a waiter's body, terror clawing at her throat, but Lorenzo's arm around her waist held her upright like an iron vice. A gunman stepped out from behind a shattered archway; Lorenzo raised his weapon and fired twice without breaking stride. Blood sprayed across the white wall behind them.
They kicked open the south service door, tumbling out into the freezing Chicago rain.
A reinforced Maybach idling in the alley screeched to a halt beside them. Matteo threw open the rear door. Lorenzo shoved Evelyn inside onto the leather upholstery, sliding in immediately after her as bullets pinged harmlessly off the reinforced glass.
The car tore down the alleyway, tires screaming against wet asphalt, leaving the burning wreckage of The Obsidian in their wake.
Inside the quiet cabin, Evelyn curled against the far door, trembling violently, her uniform soaked in rain, sweat, and stray blood.
Lorenzo reached out. His gloved fingers caught her chin, squeezing until her teeth clicked together, forcing her eyes up to meet his.
His gaze was predatory, dark, and utterly consuming. He pulled the torn napkin from his pocket, tossing it into her lap.
"Who do you work for, little waitress?" he murmured, leaning closer until his cold breath ghosted over her lips.
"Nobody," she choked out. "I just... I saw her phone."
May you like
Lorenzo studied her face for a long, suffocating silence. A cruel, intoxicating smile touched his lips. "You saved my life, Evelyn. Which means your old life is dead. You belong to the Moretti family now."
---
