Chapter 2 - THE SILVER COMPASS
My breath froze in my throat.
Time seemed to stretch, pulling the next three seconds into agonizing slow motion. The fake server was only two steps away from table nine. His hand rested on the silver handle of the domed dish.
Vanessa’s hand emerged from her designer purse.
I braced myself for the metallic glint of a handgun. I expected the deafening crack of a gunshot to shatter the elegant hum of Blackthorn House.
Instead, Vanessa’s hand shot forward across the white tablecloth.
She didn't aim a weapon at Adrian. She reached directly toward me.
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a small, heavy black velvet pouch onto my silver serving tray. It landed with a soft, dense thud next to the folded napkin containing my warning.
Her eyes met mine. The arrogant, knowing smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror.
“Run,” Vanessa mouthed silently.
Before my brain could process the shift, the fake server reached the table. He didn't lift the silver dome to reveal a meal. He flipped the entire tray upward.
Taped to the underside of the silver dish was a sawed-off shotgun.
He pulled the trigger.
The blast was louder than anything I had ever heard. The sound physically punched the air out of my lungs. But Adrian Cross was not a man who survived this long by being slow.
A fraction of a second before the blast, Adrian had noticed Vanessa’s sudden movement toward my tray. He had shifted his weight.
The buckshot tore through the leather banquette exactly where Adrian’s chest had been a heartbeat earlier. Feathers and shredded leather exploded into the air like dirty snow.
Screams erupted across the dining room. Crystal shattered as patrons dove to the floor. The man by the bar dropped his whiskey and reached into his charcoal jacket.
Instinct is a funny thing. When my father left, my mother froze. I learned then that freezing gets you killed.
I didn't run away. I swung my silver serving tray like a baseball bat, aiming directly for the fake server’s face.
The heavy metal edge caught him across the jaw with a sickening crack. He stumbled backward, the shotgun firing wildly into the ceiling, raining plaster down on our heads.
A strong hand suddenly gripped my upper arm, yanking me forward with terrifying force.
It was Adrian.
There was no panic in his dark eyes. Only cold, terrifying calculation. He shoved Vanessa ahead of him toward the kitchen doors.
“Move!” Adrian roared, pulling me alongside him.
We burst through the swinging doors into the chaotic kitchen. Cooks were screaming, abandoning their stations. Pots boiled over on the stoves, filling the air with thick, greasy steam.
“Service elevator,” Adrian commanded, his voice slicing through the panic.
He didn't pull a gun. He didn't yell. He moved with the precision of a predator navigating its own territory. We reached the heavy metal doors of the freight elevator in the back hallway. Adrian slammed his palm against the call button, swiping a black keycard he produced from his sleeve.
The doors slid open. We rushed inside. Adrian hit the button for the basement parking garage.
The doors closed, cutting off the screams of the dining room.
The silence inside the steel box was heavy. My hands were shaking so violently I had to press them against my thighs.
Vanessa was leaning against the back wall, crying quietly, her hands covering her face. Her diamond necklace sparkled mockingly in the harsh fluorescent light.
Adrian stood in the center of the elevator. He straightened the cuffs of his ruined suit jacket. Then, he turned to me.
He didn't thank me. He didn't ask if I was okay.
His eyes dropped to my apron pocket, where I had shoved the black velvet pouch Vanessa had thrown onto my tray.
“My fiancée just tried to hand you my death warrant,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I want to know why.”
“I didn't do it!” Vanessa sobbed, stepping forward. “Adrian, I swear! They told me if I didn't signal them, they would kill my sister. They have Chloe.”
Adrian didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on me.
“The waitress saw the trap before I did,” Adrian mused, stepping closer. He was six foot two, broad-shouldered, and exuded an aura of absolute dominance. “She wrote a note. And then Vanessa gave her a package. Open it.”
My trembling fingers reached into my apron. I pulled out the black velvet pouch. It felt heavy. Cold.
I loosened the drawstrings and tipped it over my palm.
A heavy, antique silver compass slid out. The glass face was completely shattered, a spiderweb of cracks obscuring the needle.
Adrian’s breath hitched. For the first time, the terrifyingly calm king of Chicago looked genuinely shaken.
“Turn it over,” Adrian whispered.
I flipped the heavy silver compass in my hand.
Engraved on the back, the metal scratched and worn with age, was a single name.
Elias Thorne.
“Answer me, Vanessa,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. “Why did Elias Thorne’s men tell you to give this to a random waitress?”
“They didn't,” Vanessa cried, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Elias told me to give it to her. He knew exactly who she was. He said if she didn't get it, he would burn this city to the ground.”
Adrian finally looked at my face. Really looked at me.
He reached out and pressed a hidden latch on the side of the compass. The back casing popped open like a locket.
Tucked inside the silver casing was a small, faded photograph.
Adrian took it out and held it up.
My heart completely stopped. The air vanished from the elevator.
It was a picture of a beautiful young woman standing in front of a modest brick house. She was smiling, holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
It was my mother. And I was the baby.
“What is your last name?” Adrian demanded.
“Bennett,” I choked out. “Mara Bennett.”
Adrian stared at the photograph, then at me. A shadow of profound realization crossed his face.
“You aren't a random waitress, Mara,” Adrian said softly. “And we aren't going to the garage.”
He reached out and hit the emergency stop button. The elevator jerked to a violent halt between floors.
“Who is with your brother tonight?” Adrian asked.
May you like
I froze. “How do you know about Owen?”
“Because,” Adrian said, pulling a sleek black handgun from his ankle holster, “Elias Thorne doesn't just send warnings. If he knows where you work, he knows where your family sleeps. We have exactly ten minutes to get to your apartment before Elias’s men do.”
