Chapter 2 - THE COUNTDOWN
"Evie," Gilbert hissed right into her ear. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Spilled wine," Evelyn lied smoothly, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I'm dropping a fresh napkin over the stain. Standard protocol."
Gilbert scowled, his eyes darting toward Lorenzo’s intimidating back. "Make it invisible. If he complains, you're fired before dessert."
Evelyn didn't wait for him to finish. She stepped back into the lion's den.
8:52.
Lorenzo hadn't moved, but the air around him had dropped ten degrees. Celeste was now aggressively checking her diamond-encrusted watch. Evelyn moved with the practiced grace of a ghost, swapping the stained cloth and placing the folded cocktail napkin directly beneath the base of Lorenzo's fresh espresso cup.
She pressed her thumb into the center, leaving a slight indent. A waitress trick to make a coaster stick. To make him look.
Lorenzo’s dark eyes flicked up, meeting hers for a fraction of a second. The impact was like touching a live wire. There was no warmth, no gratitude, only a sharp, calculating intelligence.
Evelyn broke eye contact instantly, stepping backward toward the service doors.
8:54.
She shoved through the swinging doors into the chaotic heat of the kitchen. "Chef, Table Four needs—"
The explosion shook the foundation of the building.
It wasn't a bomb; it was a synchronized breach. The heavy double doors of the north exit—the very doors Celeste had been eyeing—blew off their hinges in a shower of splintered mahogany and frosted glass.
Screams erupted, instantly swallowed by the deafening roar of automatic gunfire. Plaster rained from the ceiling, dusting the copper pots.
Evelyn hit the linoleum floor hard, her ears ringing. Through the porthole window of the swinging door, she saw the dining room dissolve into a nightmare. Masked men poured through the north entrance. Celeste was already gone, her chair overturned.
But Lorenzo wasn't at the table.
Before Evelyn could crawl toward the loading dock, the kitchen door was kicked open with enough force to shatter the glass. A massive figure filled the doorway.
It was Lorenzo. His custom suit was dusted with ash, his breathing perfectly controlled. His cold eyes swept the terrified kitchen staff cowering under the prep tables, landing squarely on Evelyn.
He crossed the room in three massive strides, hauling her to her feet by the strap of her apron.
"You," he growled, his voice a dark rumble that cut through the chaos. In his left hand, crumpled but intact, was her cocktail napkin. "How did you know?"
"Let me go!" Evelyn thrashed, but his grip was like iron.
"They're sweeping the dining room," Lorenzo said, ignoring her panic. "They'll be in here in ten seconds. You're my only blind spot tonight. You're coming with me."
"I have a son!" she screamed, planting her feet. "I have to get home!"
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Lorenzo froze, the cold mask slipping for a microsecond. The heavy boots of the hit squad echoed just outside the kitchen doors.
"If you stay here, your son is an orphan," Lorenzo said softly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a matte-black heavy pistol. "South service elevator. Now."
