Chapter 2 - THE RED STAIN
“Nothing,” Evelyn whispered to Gilbert, her voice tight. “Just cleaning up.”
She shoved the crumpled, torn napkin into her apron pocket. Her pulse hammered in her throat, thick and suffocating.
8:52.
She grabbed a fresh cloth napkin and a small club soda from the bar. She didn’t look at Gilbert. She didn’t look at the doors. She just walked.
Every step back to Table Four felt like walking through deep water.
Lorenzo Moretti hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the single drop of red wine on the pristine white tablecloth. Celeste was checking her reflection in the blade of her butter knife, entirely unbothered.
Evelyn reached the table. She didn't ask for permission. She simply leaned over, placed the fresh linen over the stain, and set the heavy crystal glass down.
As she pulled her hand back, she slipped the folded cocktail napkin directly under Lorenzo’s thumb.
His eyes flicked up.
They were impossibly dark, devoid of whatever warmth human beings were supposed to have. He didn't look at the napkin. He looked right through her, reading every micro-expression on her pale face.
Evelyn didn’t breathe. She just gave a stiff nod, turned on her heel, and walked away.
She didn't run. Running would draw attention.
She made it to the kitchen doors just as the clock above the bar clicked to 8:54.
Behind her, the faint rustle of paper told her he had opened it.
Evelyn pushed through the swinging doors into the chaotic heat of the kitchen. "Chef needs more ice at station three!" she yelled to a busboy, keeping her pace brisk. She headed straight for the employee locker room near the south exit.
If Lorenzo listened to her, Celeste’s men would realize the trap was blown. The restaurant would become a war zone.
If he didn't listen to her, the north exit would be painted in his blood.
She ripped her apron off, her hands trembling violently. She needed her coat. She needed to get to the Cicero train.
Then, the floor shook.
It wasn't a metaphor. The heavy metal racks of pots and pans rattled against the tile walls. A deep, concussive thud echoed from the front of the restaurant, followed instantly by the sound of shattering glass and screaming.
8:55.
They hadn't waited for him to leave. They had brought the north exit to him.
The kitchen dissolved into panic. Cooks dropped pans. Waitstaff screamed and scrambled toward the alley doors. Evelyn grabbed her worn wool coat from her locker and pushed her way through the frantic crowd toward the south loading dock.
She burst into the freezing Chicago air. Sirens were already wailing in the distance.
She turned down the dark, narrow alley, her breath pluming in the cold. She had survived. She was out.
Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth.
An arm like a steel cable wrapped around her waist, dragging her violently into the shadows behind a dumpster.
Evelyn thrashed, kicking wildly.
"Stop," a voice breathed into her ear. It was dangerously calm. "Or they'll hear us."
The hand loosened just enough for her to turn her head.
Lorenzo Moretti was pressed against the brick wall beside her. The left shoulder of his immaculate suit was torn, dark blood seeping into the expensive fabric. In his right hand, he held a suppressed pistol.
In his left, he held her crumpled napkin.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel at the end of the alley. Two men in dark coats were scanning the shadows, holding automatic weapons.
Lorenzo covered Evelyn’s mouth again, his chest rising and falling silently against her back. They waited. The men cursed in Italian, then ran toward the main street.
When the alley was quiet, Lorenzo spun Evelyn around, pinning her against the frozen brick. His forearm pressed into her collarbone—not choking her, but holding her absolutely still.
"Who do you work for?" he demanded, his voice a low, lethal rasp.
"Nobody!" Evelyn gasped, terrified. "I'm just a waitress!"
"A waitress who knows the exact time and location of a Vane family hit," Lorenzo said, his eyes narrowing. "Try again. How did you know?"
"I saw her phone! Celeste!" Evelyn cried, tears of pure adrenaline pricking her eyes. "She got a text! I saw the time, and I saw her tap her fingers. My father was a gambler, okay? I know what a tell looks like!"
Lorenzo stared at her. He searched her eyes, looking for the lie.
He didn't find one.
Slowly, he lowered his arm. He leaned against the wall, wincing as his injured shoulder brushed the brick. He reached into his coat pocket.
"Your father was a gambler," Lorenzo said quietly.
"Yes," Evelyn breathed. "He died in debt."
"I know," Lorenzo said.
He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her in the dim street-light.
Evelyn stared at it, her heart stopping completely.
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It was a tarnished silver Zippo lighter. Engraved on the side were three letters: T.E.C. Thomas Edward Carter. Her father.
"He didn't die in debt," Lorenzo said softly. "He died because he found out what Celeste was planning. And he asked me to give this back to you."
