THE GLASS ASSASSIN: SECRETS OF TABLE 14

The silence at Table 14 was absolute.

Around us, the restaurant continued its elegant, oblivious dance. Silverware clinked against fine china. A jazz pianist played a soft, trailing melody in the corner. Women in silk dresses laughed, unaware that a few feet away, the air had turned to ice.

I stared at Victor Hale.

Rourke’s head of security didn’t flinch. His hand remained casually tucked beneath his tailored jacket, resting on the grip of a weapon I now knew was there.

"Show her," Rourke commanded quietly.

Victor slowly pulled his hand from his jacket. Between his index and middle finger, he held a small, glossy square of paper. It was a Polaroid. The edges were slightly smudged with what looked like grease. Or soot.

He placed it on the white tablecloth, right next to the untouched Bordeaux glass.

I didn't want to look.

Every survival instinct I had honed over the last eleven months screamed at me to turn around, walk out the service doors, and disappear into the Manhattan night.

But my eyes moved downward anyway.

The breath violently left my lungs.

It wasn't a picture of me. Not exactly.

It was a photograph of a little girl sitting on a faded yellow couch, holding a worn-out plush rabbit. She had dark curls, just like mine, and big, terrified brown eyes.

Mia.

My seven-year-old daughter.

"No," I whispered. The word barely made it past my lips. My hands began to shake so violently I had to press them flat against my apron to hide it.

Eleven months.

I had given up everything. I had staged my own death in a burning car in Chicago. I had left the only child I had ever loved in the care of a trusted foster network, praying the distance would keep her alive. I hadn't heard her voice. I hadn't brushed her hair. I had become a ghost so she could have a future.

And now, she was sitting on a yellow couch I didn't recognize, looking directly into the lens of someone who wanted me dead.

"You recognize the girl," Rourke said. It wasn't a question.

"Where did you get this?" My voice sounded foreign to me. Guttural. Desperate.

"I didn't get it," Rourke replied, his gray eyes scanning my face with analytical coldness. "The waiter who just walked out the back door left it pinned to the kitchen corkboard. Addressed to 'Claire'."

Answer One: The misplaced glass wasn't an assassin’s mark for Keller. It was bait. A psychological trigger meant to see if I still had the instincts of my past life. And I had failed the test by moving it.

Open Two: Who had taken Mia? And why did they deliver the message to Adrian Rourke’s table?

"I have to go," I said, stumbling backward.

"Sit down," Victor snapped, taking a step toward me.

"My daughter is in danger!" I hissed, my professional waitress facade entirely gone. I was no longer Claire the server. I was Evelyn, the woman who used to clean up messes for the Chicago syndicate.

"Sit. Down." Rourke’s voice didn't rise in volume, but it carried a weight that pinned my feet to the floor. "If you walk out that door right now, you’re a dead woman. And if you’re dead, the girl in that photograph loses her only leverage."

I slowly slid into the empty chair opposite Rourke. A waitress sitting at a guest's table was a fireable offense at Halcyon, but right now, the manager watching from across the room was the least of my problems.

Dean Keller, the former Army intelligence operator sitting to Rourke's right, finally looked at me. His eyes were hard, unreadable.

"Look closely at the photograph, Claire," Keller said softly.

I forced myself to look again. This time, I looked past Mia's frightened face. I looked at the background.

On the table next to the yellow couch, sitting clearly in focus, was a heavy, silver pocket watch. The lid was open.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss.

I knew that watch. I had bought it for my husband on our fifth anniversary.

"Julian," I breathed.

Julian was supposed to be in a federal penitentiary. He was the reason I ran. He was the monster who had controlled my life, the cartel accountant who had decided Mia and I were liabilities to be erased.

"Julian Vance was released from federal custody yesterday afternoon," Rourke said calmly, taking a sip of his wine. "A sudden lack of evidence. Witnesses disappearing. You know how it works."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "He took her. He found Mia."

"And now he’s found you," Keller added.

I looked at Rourke, a sudden, blinding realization hitting me. A reversal that made the opulent dining room spin.

"Julian didn't send that waiter to just anyone's table," I said, my voice rising. "He sent him to yours. He knew I would serve you. Julian doesn't want me dead. He wants to make a trade."

Rourke smiled again. That same cold, terrifying smile.

"Smart girl," Rourke murmured. "Julian owes me fifty million dollars. He knows I have a contract out on his life. He took your daughter, tracked you here, and offered me a deal. Your life, in exchange for his debt."

The air in my lungs turned to ash.

Rourke wasn't trying to protect me. He had orchestrated this entire dinner to confirm my identity. He had set the trap with the glass.

"Victor," Rourke said, not looking away from me. "Take her to the car. Julian is waiting at the docks."

Victor’s heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

I was about to be traded to the man who wanted to kill me.

But as Victor pulled me to my feet, Dean Keller suddenly stood up.