Chapter 2 - THE SHATTERED GLASS
The man’s hand moved inside his jacket.
I didn’t scream. Screaming would only freeze the room. Instead, I moved.
I held a heavy, crystal carafe of sparkling water. I didn’t drop it. I launched myself forward, sliding on the polished marble floor in my practical black shoes. I threw the carafe with every ounce of strength I had gained from carrying double-stacked trays for eighteen months.
The crystal struck the gunman’s shoulder just as he cleared the weapon from his coat.
The impact was a sickening crunch of glass and bone. The gun—a heavy, matte-black pistol—clattered to the floor, sliding under an empty table.
The sound of the shattering carafe finally broke the restaurant's curated silence. Chaos erupted. Diners screamed. Chairs scraped violently against the floor.
I fell hard, my knees slamming into the marble. My breath rushed out of my lungs, but I forced my head up. The gunman wasn’t looking at Adrian anymore.
He was looking at me.
His eyes were pale, devoid of panic. He didn't scramble for the gun. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin, silver folding knife. He lunged toward me, not Adrian.
Before I could even raise my arms, a shadow eclipsed the candlelight.
Adrian Vescari hadn't dived for cover. He hadn't called for help. He stepped directly between me and the blade. His large hand clamped around the gunman’s wrist with a sickening snap. The knife dropped. Adrian’s other hand shot forward, gripping the man’s throat and slamming him backward into a structural pillar.
The gunman went entirely limp, sliding to the floor.
The entire exchange took less than four seconds.
Adrian didn’t look at the unconscious man. He turned to me. His chest rose and fell in slow, even measurements. His dark eyes were impossible to read.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was a low, textured rumble, barely carrying over the screams of the fleeing patrons.
"No," I breathed, staring at the blood on his knuckles. "You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
Two men in tailored suits—the ones who had arrived with Adrian—suddenly materialized from the kitchen corridor. They didn't have weapons drawn, but the air around them felt lethal.
"Clear the exits, Leo," Adrian said to the taller one.
Adrian knelt beside me. He didn't grab my arm to pull me up; he offered his hand, palm up, waiting for my permission. I took it. His grip was warm, calloused, and grounding.
As I stood, my foot brushed against something metallic near the shattered crystal.
It wasn't a bullet casing. It was a heavy, silver money clip the gunman had dropped when he fell. But the money inside wasn't American dollars. It was a stack of promissory notes, and wrapped around them was a delicate, gold chain holding a small, chipped sapphire pendant.
My breath caught in my throat.
That was my grandmother’s necklace. The one my ex-fiancé, David, had supposedly "lost" during our move to Queens three years ago.
I bent down and snatched it off the floor, my hand trembling.
Adrian watched my face. He didn't ask what I had found. He simply looked at the second man, the one standing by the broken carafe.
"Get her coat, Marcus," Adrian ordered quietly. "She comes with us."
"I can't leave," I stammered, backing away. "The police will want a statement. My manager—"
Adrian stepped closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the frantic restaurant. "The man on the floor wasn't here for me, Elara," he said, using my name for the first time. "He was aiming at my table, but his eyes were on you."
I stared at him, the chilled gold of the necklace biting into my palm.
May you like
"Why?" I whispered.
Adrian looked at my clenched fist. "I think you just picked up the answer. And if you stay here for the police, whoever gave him that necklace will know exactly where to find you tomorrow."
