Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD ON THE WHITE LINEN
“Evie.”
Gilbert’s voice was a whip crack in the chaotic hum of the service station. His eyes dropped to the folded, torn napkin vibrating in my shaking hand, then snapped back to my face. “What the hell are you doing? Table Four needs their wine poured, not a love letter.”
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might shatter them. It was 8:52. Three minutes until the north exit became a slaughterhouse.
“I spilled,” I lied. My voice sounded hollow, distant, like it belonged to someone else. “A drop of wine on the tablecloth. I was grabbing a napkin to cover it before Mr. Moretti noticed.”
Gilbert’s face flushed an ugly, mottled purple. “You spilled wine on Lorenzo Moretti’s table? Are you out of your mind? Get back out there, cover the stain, and don’t look at any of them. Go!”
He shoved me toward the dining room.
I stumbled forward, gripping the fresh tray. The napkin was tucked under a spotless crystal water glass. Every step across the black marble floor felt like walking through deep water. The Obsidian was buzzing with the sounds of wealth—clinking glasses, low laughter, jazz bleeding from the corner stage—but all I could hear was the frantic ticking of the clock in my own head.
8:53.
I approached Table Four from behind Lorenzo’s right shoulder. Celeste was still sitting there, radiant in her emerald gown, sipping her champagne. But her eyes were fixed on the kitchen doors. She wasn’t looking at her fiancé. She was waiting for her widowhood to begin.
I leaned in. The scent of Lorenzo’s expensive cologne—sandalwood and sharp citrus—mixed with the coppery smell of my own fear.
“Apologies for the spill, sir,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
With a swift, practiced motion, I set the water glass down. I slid the folded napkin directly over the tiny red wine stain. I didn’t push it toward him. I didn’t tap it. I just left it there, right next to his resting hand.
Celeste turned her head, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows narrowing. “What is she doing?” she asked, her tone dripping with sudden, sharp suspicion.
Lorenzo didn’t answer her.
His dark eyes flicked down to the napkin. Through the thin white paper, the heavy black ink of the hostess pen bled through just enough. He saw the harsh, jagged lines of my handwriting.
I didn’t wait to see him open it. I turned and walked away.
I kept my spine straight. I kept my breathing even. Just make it to the kitchen, I told myself. Make it to the employee locker room, grab your coat, and run.
8:54.
I pushed through the heavy double doors into the kitchen. The heat of the stoves hit my face. Chefs were screaming out orders. The dishwashers were clattering plates. I kept walking, shoving my tray onto a prep counter.
“Hey, Evie, you need to run table seven’s apps—” a line cook started to say.
“I have to go,” I choked out, pushing past him.
8:55.
The first gunshot didn’t sound like a gun. It sounded like a champagne bottle popping, only deeper, echoing with a violent crack that rattled the stainless-steel pots hanging from the ceiling.
Then came the screaming.
The kitchen went dead silent for a fraction of a second, and then absolute pandemonium erupted. Another gunshot rang out, followed by the shattering of the dining room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Waiters dropped trays. Cooks dove behind the massive iron stoves.
I threw myself against the tiled wall, sliding down to the wet floor, covering my ears.
He didn’t listen, I thought, a sob tearing at my throat. He went for the north exit.
The swinging doors to the dining room burst open. Two men in black tactical gear backed into the kitchen, firing suppressed weapons into the restaurant. These weren’t the Obsidian’s security guards. These were the cleaners Celeste had texted about.
“Target is moving!” one of them yelled. “He didn’t take the north door! He’s headed for the loading dock!”
My blood ran cold.
The loading dock. That was right behind me.
Before I could scramble to my feet, the heavy metal fire door at the back of the kitchen slammed open. Lorenzo Moretti stepped through. His tailored black suit was covered in white plaster dust. His eyes were wild, scanning the room with the lethal precision of a cornered predator. He had a heavy black pistol in his right hand.
He fired twice.
The two men in tactical gear dropped to the linoleum floor before they could even turn around.
The kitchen staff screamed, scrambling frantically toward the walk-in freezers. I was frozen against the wall, my knees pulled to my chest, trembling violently.
Lorenzo started walking toward the loading dock exit, his boots stepping over the shattered plates and spilled soup. He was going to make it out. He was going to survive.
But then he stopped.
He turned his head. Through the chaos, through the smoke and the screaming, his dark eyes locked directly onto mine.
I shrank back, pressing myself so hard against the tiles I thought they would crack.
Lorenzo didn’t run. He walked straight toward me. He reached down, his massive hand closing around my upper arm like a vice, and hauled me to my feet.
“You’re coming with me,” he ordered, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that cut through the noise.
“No!” I screamed, fighting against his grip. “Let me go! I saved your life!”
“Which is exactly why they’re going to kill you, too,” he snapped, dragging me toward the heavy steel door.
We burst out into the freezing Chicago night. The loading dock was dark, illuminated only by the flickering orange glow of a broken streetlamp. The air was brutally cold, biting through my thin uniform shirt. Sirens were already wailing in the distance, echoing off the concrete skyscrapers.
Lorenzo shoved me behind a towering stack of wooden pallets just as a black SUV screeched around the corner, its headlights cutting through the darkness. Men with guns poured out, shouting in Italian.
“Stay down,” Lorenzo hissed, pressing his hand over my mouth. His body shielded mine. He smelled like gunpowder and adrenaline.
He peeked around the pallets, raising his weapon.
I couldn’t breathe. My hands were shaking so violently that I reached up to pry his fingers away from my mouth. As my hand grabbed his wrist, my uniform sleeve rode up.
The dim streetlamp caught the silver metal of the watch on my left wrist.
It was a heavy, men’s silver chronometer. Too big for me. Scratched glass. A frayed leather band. I had worn it every single day since I was twelve years old. It was the only thing my father had left behind before he vanished.
Lorenzo froze.
He didn’t shoot. He didn’t look at the men swarming the alley.
He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight I gasped in pain. He pulled my arm closer to his face, his eyes wide, staring at the intricate engraving on the side of the watch face.
When he looked back up at me, the coldness in his eyes was completely gone. It was replaced by a shock so profound it made him look like a different man.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, breathless whisper.
“It’s my father’s,” I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks.
Lorenzo stared at me, the sirens growing deafeningly loud. “What is your name?”
“Evie,” I sobbed. “Evelyn Carter.”
May you like
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He looked from my face to the watch, and then out toward the men hunting him.
“Arthur Carter is dead, Evelyn,” Lorenzo said, his voice slicing through the cold air. “And if you want to know who really killed him, you’re going to get in the car.”
