Chapter 2 - Five Minutes to Live
"Mia," Frank hissed, his breath hot against her temple, smelling faintly of cheap peppermint and sour coffee. "What the hell are you doing? Drop the trash and get the backup silver for Table Nine before I dock your tips."
Mia didn’t blink. Her knuckles were stark white around the folded cocktail napkin tucked into her apron seam. The brass-rimmed clock over the bar ticked mercilessly toward 9:09. Three minutes remained before whatever was waiting at the west exit arrived.
"Frank, please. I spilled wine on Mr. Morelli’s linen," Mia said, keeping her tone flat, modulating the tremble out of her voice through sheer muscle memory. "If I don't clean it, his security will complain to ownership."
Frank glanced toward the center of the room. Dante Morelli was still sitting motionless, his dark gaze pinned on the faint red stain on the damask tablecloth. The heavy-set bodyguard to Dante’s left had shifted his jacket back just enough to reveal the black leather holster beneath his arm. Frank swallowed hard and released her arm. "Hurry up. Wipe it and walk away."
Mia pulled a clean linen cloth from the service cart, slipped the folded napkin underneath it, and stepped back into the dining room. The room felt heavier now, charged with static, like the air right before a summer thunderstorm tears the power lines down.
Vivian Vale was sipping champagne, the crystal flute held delicately between French-manicured fingertips. She looked radiant, effortless, the very picture of old Chicago aristocracy sealing an empire with a ring. But her right foot was tapping a frantic, silent rhythm against the dark marble floor beneath the tablecloth.
Mia approached from Dante’s blind side. "Pardon me, sir. Replacing the cover."
Dante didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean back to give her room. Up close, his cologne was cedar and gun oil, an intoxicating, lethal blend that raised the fine hairs on Mia's forearms. His eyes were the color of wet slate—unreadable, completely devoid of warmth.
Mia spread the clean square of white linen over the red drop. Underneath the fabric, her fingertips pressed the stiff edge of the paper napkin against the cold wood of the table, nudging it directly beneath Dante’s left palm.
His fingers didn't move, but Mia felt the exact millisecond his skin registered the paper. His jawline hardened.
Mia pulled her hands back, bowed her head, and began to pivot away.
Across the table, Vivian set her glass down. Her eyes darted toward the clock: 9:10. Then she smiled at Dante, reaching out to touch his sleeve. "Darling, the noise in here is giving me a dreadful migraine. Let’s have Leo bring the car around back. The west entrance is always quieter."
The room seemed to shrink.
Dante didn't answer immediately. Slowly, casually, his broad left palm closed over the napkin. With an economy of movement that betrayed years of street survival, he slid the paper into his lap, unfolded it beneath the table, and glanced down.
Mia was already four paces away, pretending to collect empty ramekins from an unoccupied station. In the antique mirror spanning the east wall, she watched Dante's face.
He didn't yell. He didn't jump up. He simply folded the napkin into a tight square and slipped it into his inner breast pocket, right next to his heart. Then he looked across the table at Vivian Vale. The faint, polite indulgence he had worn all evening evaporated, replaced by a stillness that was utterly terrifying.
"The west exit?" Dante asked, his voice smooth as velvet, carrying cleanly across the hushed chatter of the room.
"Yes," Vivian purred, picking up her beaded purse. "It avoids the valet line entirely."
"Funny," Dante said softly, leaning forward until the chandelier light caught the silver signet ring on his pinky finger. "Leo didn't mention bringing the car there. In fact, Leo hasn't checked in for twenty minutes."
Vivian’s smile froze around the edges. "I'm sure he's just idling, Dante. Don't be paranoid."
"I survived twenty years in this city because I am paranoid, Vivian." Dante tilted his head, his slate-gray eyes boring into hers. "And because people usually check their texts before they try to murder me."
Vivian’s hand jerked toward her purse.
Before her fingers could plunge inside, Dante’s right hand shot across the linen, catching her wrist in a vice grip that made her gasp. At the exact same second, the heavy service doors near the west corridor burst open with a deafening crash.
Two men in black tactical gear stepped through the threshold, submachine guns raised.
Panic detonated through the dining room. Wine glasses shattered on marble, chairs flipped backward, and high-society diners screamed as they threw themselves beneath tables.
"Down!" Dante roared, not to Vivian, but toward his own enforcers.
The heavy-set bodyguard, Marco, drew his sidearm in a fluid, practiced arc, firing twice toward the door. The loud concussions of gunfire tore through the elegant room, blowing out a display cabinet of vintage cognac and sending fine glass raining down like hailstones.
Mia dropped behind the heavy oak service station, curling her knees to her chest, her hands pressed over her ears. Wood splinters bit into her cheek as stray bullets chewed through the paneling right above her head. She had known the city was brutal, but seeing war brought into a dining room was a different kind of horror.
Through the gap in the woodwork, she saw Dante move. He didn't retreat. He dragged Vivian by the wrist out of her chair, using her as a shield while his left hand drew a sleek, matte-black pistol from beneath his jacket.
"Marco! Fire door, east corridor!" Dante commanded over the shrieks and gunfire.
Vivian was crying out, struggling wildly against his hold, her designer heels skidding uselessly on the marble. "Dante, let me go! You don't understand—they'll kill my brother if I don't—"
Dante didn't spare her a single glance. He fired three disciplined shots toward the west doorway, dropping the lead shooter instantly. The remaining gunman retreated behind the steel kitchen doors, trading sporadic suppressive fire.
Dante turned toward the east exit, his men forming a moving wall around him. Then, through the smoke and floating down from the shattered acoustic tiles, his gaze swept the room until it locked directly onto Mia.
She was trembling behind the service bar, eyes wide with terror, her apron stained with grease and wine. She looked small, ordinary, and thoroughly exposed.
Dante stopped in his tracks.
"Boss, we have to move!" Marco yelled, clutching a bleeding shoulder. "More are coming up from the basement!"
Dante ignored him. He took three long strides through the drifting smoke, reached down behind the service station with his free hand, and caught Mia by the collar of her white server's shirt. With effortless, terrifying strength, he hauled her to her feet.
"You're coming with me," Dante said, his voice completely calm amid the sirens already wailing in the distance.
"No—please! I don't have anything to do with this!" Mia cried, trying to pry his steel fingers loose.
May you like
Dante shoved her behind his shoulder, moving fast toward the eastern service alley. "They saw you pass the paper, sweetheart. If I leave you here, you won't survive the next ten minutes."
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