Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Kitchen
By eleven o’clock, the rush had thinned to a handful of lingering diners nursing digestifs. The kitchen was a chaotic symphony of clattering pots, rushing dishwashers, and the sharp, echoing bark of the head chef calling out tickets.
Maya was scrubbing down her station, her muscles aching with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. Her shift had ended ten minutes ago, but she always took her time closing down. It gave her a quiet buffer between the frantic chaos of the floor and the lonely, freezing walk back to her apartment.
The heavy swing door of the kitchen pushed open.
Usually, it was just busboys or line cooks hauling trash bins out to the alley. But when the door swung back this time, the ambient noise of the kitchen seemed to drop an octave.
Adrian Cole stepped inside.
He didn't look like a restaurant patron. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like armor, and his eyes scanned the room with the practiced, predatory ease of a man who evaluated exits before he ordered dinner. He bypassed the line cooks, the prep stations, and the steaming dish pit, walking straight toward Maya as she wiped down the stainless-steel counter.
Maya stopped wiping. Her grip on the rag tightened.
“Maya Ellison?” Adrian asked, his voice flat, polite, and entirely devoid of warmth.
“Who’s asking?” she retorted, not missing a beat, though her heart gave a heavy, warning thud against her ribs.
“A friend of yours from last night,” Adrian said smoothly, holding out a thick, heavy business card between two fingers. There was no name embossed on it—just a small, elegant silver crest in the corner. “Mr. Moretti would like a word before you leave.”
Maya stared at the card like it was a live grenade. “I’m off the clock. If Mr. Moretti wants to talk to me, he can wait until my shift tomorrow, or he can take it up with the labor board.”
Adrian didn't blink. He didn't smile. “Mr. Moretti doesn't usually wait, Miss Ellison. And he certainly doesn't deal with the labor board. Your manager has already cleared your time.”
“Daniel sold me out in under thirty seconds?” Maya muttered, her eyes flashing with a dangerous mix of disbelief and cold fury. “I am going to put so much decaf in his espresso tomorrow morning.”
“The car is outside,” Adrian said, gesturing toward the service alley exit.
“I walk home.”
“Mr. Moretti’s car is much safer than the alley at eleven-thirty at night, especially for someone who has made such a memorable impression on him.” There was no mistaking the subtle, iron-clad threat woven into Adrian’s polished tone. It wasn't violent; it was absolute. You are coming with me, whether you want to or not.
Maya’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. She looked around the kitchen. The line cooks had suddenly found a fascinating interest in scraping grease off the grill. No one was going to save her. If she made a scene, she’d lose her job—and right now, forty-two dollars and a job at Giardino were all that stood between her and eviction.
“Fine,” Maya snapped, ripping off her black apron and tossing it onto the stainless-steel table. “Lead the way, Agent 47.”
Adrian’s expression didn't change, though a microscopic twitch at the corner of his left eye suggested he was unaccustomed to being compared to a video game assassin.
He escorted her out through the side exit into the damp, rain-slicked alleyway. Waiting against the brick wall was the same monstrously expensive black Ferrari from the night before, its sleek body gleaming under the harsh yellow sodium lights.
The passenger door clicked open automatically.
Maya didn't hesitate. She climbed in, sliding across the supple leather seats with an expression that could have frozen boiling water.
The door shut behind her with a heavy, satisfying thud, sealing out the noise of the city.
Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling faintly of cedarwood and expensive leather. Luca Moretti sat in the back seat—or rather, the front passenger seat had been pushed forward, and he was seated in the spacious rear cabin of a custom-extended model, his long legs crossed, a laptop open on his knees.
He looked up as she slammed her bag down on the floor.
“You have a very dramatic way of closing a shift, Miss Ellison,” Luca said quietly, closing the laptop with a soft click.
“And you have a very expensive way of stalking your waitstaff,” Maya shot back, turning to face him directly, her arms crossed over her chest. “Look, if I spilled water on your precious shoes or hurt your fragile feelings by calling you trash, I apologize. Professionally speaking, of course. Can I go home now?”
Luca didn't answer right away. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, his dark eyes sweeping over her with an intensity that felt less like an insult and more like a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“You called me trash,” Luca said softly, as if savoring the memory. “And then you walked away without looking back. Do you have any idea what happens to people who speak to me that way, Maya?”
“They get fired?”
“They disappear.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car. Outside, the rain began to patter against the bulletproof glass, streaking the dark windows with silver lines.
May you like
Maya swallowed hard, the first genuine prickle of cold fear touching her spine, but she refused to lower her chin. “Well,” she whispered, her voice shaking just a fraction before she caught it, “I guess you’ll just have to decide if my disappearance is worth the paperwork.”
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