Chapter 1 - The Two Pokes That Silenced Vesper
Sienna Brooks poked the stranger’s chest and said:
“Move, skyscraper.”
When Vesper owner Nico Valente looked down at her, he was holding the brass key to the private elevator.
A dark red smear marked one edge.
It had not been there ten minutes earlier.
Nico suddenly realized somebody else had already used the elevator.
The first thing I remember thinking was that he was unnecessarily large.
Not handsome.
Not dangerous.
Not terrifying.
Large.
That was mostly because I had been on my feet for eleven hours, my lower back hurt, my black service shoes had become instruments of torture sometime around midnight, and Maya had convinced me that drinking half a glass of leftover champagne after closing constituted “employee morale management.”
My judgment was not at its sharpest.
In my defense, I had asked politely first.
“Excuse me.”
The man standing in front of the schedule clipboard did not move.
He was facing sideways, talking quietly to a restaurant manager named Victor, who looked as though he would rather be negotiating with a live grenade.
I waited.
Nothing.
I leaned to the left.
The enormous man shifted slightly.
Still blocking the schedule.
I leaned to the right.
Same problem.
I had spent most of my adult life being underestimated because I smiled too much, spoke too quickly, and had the kind of figure strangers believed gave them permission to comment on my dessert choices.
So maybe I had developed an unfortunate relationship with stubbornness.
“Excuse me,” I repeated.
The man turned his head.
That should have been my warning.
He did not glare.
Glaring would have been easier.
He simply looked at me.
Dark eyes.
Wavy black hair pushed back from a face that seemed designed specifically to make expensive suits look more expensive.
Light stubble.
A tattoo disappearing beneath the open collar of a charcoal shirt.
Another along one hand.
And absolutely no expression that suggested he considered moving necessary.
“You’re blocking the schedule,” I said.
Behind me, someone dropped a spoon.
I ignored it.
The man glanced at the clipboard.
Then back at me.
“Yes.”
I waited for more.
There was no more.
“You know that means normal people move, right?”
His eyebrow shifted maybe one millimeter.
Maya made a strangled sound behind me.
I turned slightly.
She was standing beside the marble bar with three other servers.
All four stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
Maya shook her head violently.
I interpreted that as encouragement.
In retrospect, this was an error.
I faced the man again.
“Come on. Twelve-hour shift. I just want to see if Roberto scheduled me for another double next Saturday so I can decide whether to fake my own death.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Almost.
“You talk this much to everyone?”
“Only furniture.”
His eyes lowered toward me.
“I’m furniture?”
“You’re currently performing the function of a wall.”
Somebody behind me whispered, “Oh my God.”
I decided they were being dramatic.
So I extended one finger.
And poked him.
Right in the center of his perfectly tailored black jacket.
Once.
He looked at my finger.
I poked him again.
Twice.
That was when Vesper stopped breathing.
No glasses clinked.
No silverware moved.
Even the dishwasher seemed to have become quieter.
I slowly became aware of the silence.
Maya approached me from behind.
“Sienna.”
“What?”
Her voice dropped.
“That is Nico Valente.”
I looked at her.
Then at him.
Then back at her.
“The owner?”
Maya looked physically ill.
“The owner.”
Vesper belonged to a holding company that belonged to another company that belonged to another company.
But everyone knew the name behind it.
Nico Valente.
Depending on who told the story, he was either a brilliant businessman, a criminal mastermind, a terrifying philanthropist, a mob boss who owned half the riverfront, or an innocent man surrounded by extremely imaginative rumors.
One thing remained consistent.
People did not poke him.
I removed my finger from his jacket.
Slowly.
“Well,” I said. “That explains the audience.”
Nico looked at me for two seconds.
Then three.
And somehow the worst thing happened.
He almost smiled.
“You didn’t know who I was.”
“No.”
“That makes more sense.”
“I’m choosing to take that as forgiveness.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then I’m choosing optimism.”
A tiny crease appeared beside his mouth.
Maya stared as though she had just witnessed a bear perform algebra.
Then Nico’s eyes moved.
Not toward me.
Past me.
His expression changed completely.
The amusement disappeared.
He became still.
Victor noticed too.
“What is it?” Victor asked quietly.
Nico did not answer him.
His eyes remained fixed over my shoulder.
“Sienna.”
Something in his voice made my stomach tighten.
“Yes?”
“Don’t turn around.”
Naturally, I turned around.
Two men stood near Vesper’s front entrance.
The restaurant had closed twenty-two minutes earlier.
The doors should have been locked.
Neither man wore a dining coat.
Both wore dark jackets despite the warm night.
One was watching Nico.
The other was watching me.
I frowned.
“Friends of yours?”
“No.”
That single word changed everything.
The second man placed one hand inside his coat.
Nico moved before I understood why.
His left hand closed around my upper arm and pulled me behind him.
Not roughly.
Instantly.
Victor stepped toward the bar.
“Maya,” Nico said.
Maya froze.
“Kitchen. Now.”
Maya grabbed another server.
Nobody argued.
The room suddenly seemed enormous.
The warm pendant lights felt too bright.
My slight champagne buzz vanished.
“What’s happening?” I whispered.
Nico’s hand shifted backward without looking at me.
A protective barrier.
“Stay behind me.”
The stranger near the entrance took another step.
“Nico Valente.”
Nico’s voice stayed calm.
“You’re in a closed restaurant.”
“We’re looking for someone.”
“You found me.”
“Not you.”
The stranger’s eyes moved toward me.
My skin went cold.
Nico noticed.
“Who are you looking for?”
“A woman.”
“This city has several.”
The man did not smile.
“One of your employees.”
I stared at Nico’s shoulder.
None of this made sense.
I served cocktails.
I forgot to buy laundry detergent three days in a row.
My bank account had eighty-six dollars until Monday.
Nobody entered locked restaurants looking for me.
The stranger reached farther inside his coat.
Nico said one word.
“Victor.”
A chair scraped violently.
Victor knocked it sideways between the strangers and us.
Someone shouted.
Glass shattered.
Nico turned, bent down, and before I could process the indignity, my stomach was against his shoulder.
“Nico!”
He lifted me as if I weighed approximately the same as a handbag.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving time.”
“Put me down!”
“Later.”
He moved through the private hallway at a speed that somehow remained controlled despite having an adult woman thrown over his shoulder.
My rose-pink apron hung toward his back.
My hair fell over my face.
“This is kidnapping!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I own the building.”
“That is not how kidnapping laws work!”
A crash sounded behind us.
Then a sharp impact struck brick.
Dust exploded from the hallway wall.
Nico did not stop.
I did.
Emotionally, anyway.
My mouth closed.
I stared at the fresh mark in the brick where my body had been seconds earlier.
I knew that sound.
Not because I had experienced it before.
Because movies existed.
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Nico said.
“That was—”
“Yes.”
“You could have mentioned that.”
“I told you not to turn around.”
“This feels like an inappropriate time to win an argument.”
“It’s an excellent time.”
He reached a steel door, pressed his thumb against a scanner, and carried me into the private elevator.
The doors closed.
Silence.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Nico finally lowered me.
My knees almost failed.
He caught my elbow.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m furious.”
“You can be both.”
I stared at him.
Then down at my uniform.
“My apron is crooked.”
Nico blinked.
“You nearly got shot.”
“And my apron is crooked.”
For the first time, he actually smiled.
Barely.
It transformed his face in a way I found deeply inconvenient.
The elevator descended.
“Why were they looking at me?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I’m not trying to reassure you.”
“Wonderful customer service.”
“You’re not a customer.”
The doors opened into Vesper’s underground garage.
A black SUV sat beneath low industrial lights.
Nico walked toward it.
I followed because returning upstairs suddenly seemed less appealing.
He opened the rear door.
Then stopped.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
“What?”
He said nothing.
I stepped beside him.
There was a dark smear across the pale leather seat.
Another on the door frame.
Blood.
Not much.
Enough.
My stomach turned.
Nico inspected the interior without touching anything.
“Was someone in your car?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That is an excellent question.”
I folded my arms around myself.
Something hard pressed against my waist.
I frowned.
There was an object inside the apron pocket.
I reached inside.
My fingers closed around a thin piece of plastic.
I pulled it out.
A matte-black memory card sat in my palm.
No logo.
No label.
Only a tiny scratched symbol resembling the letter V crossed by a diagonal line.
Nico looked at it.
Whatever warmth had existed in his expression vanished.
“Where did you get that?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s in your hand.”
“I mean I’ve never seen it.”
“When did someone have access to your apron?”
“I’ve been wearing it all night.”
“Think.”
I tried.
Customers.
Coworkers.
Kitchen staff.
A drunk birthday party.
An old man who had grabbed my sleeve while asking where the bathroom was.
Then I remembered.
Around nine thirty.
A quiet customer sitting alone near the service station.
Gray suit.
Wire-rim glasses.
He had looked exhausted.
He ordered coffee.
No dinner.
When I delivered the check, he stumbled slightly getting up and bumped into me.
He apologized.
His hand had brushed my apron.
At the time I assumed he was steadying himself.
“I know who did it.”
Nico stepped closer.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Describe him.”
I did.
Gray suit.
Glasses.
Thin.
Around fifty.
A small scar beneath his left ear.
Nico’s face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“Impossible.”
“Who was he?”
Nico took out his phone.
“His name is Martin Keller.”
“Okay.”
“He was Vesper Holdings’ senior accountant.”
“Was?”
Nico looked at me.
“He disappeared six weeks ago.”
My throat tightened.
“Disappeared how?”
“No phone. No bank activity. No contact with his wife.”
“But he was here tonight.”
“If you’re right.”
“I served him coffee.”
Nico stared at the black card again.
Then the blood inside the SUV.
He made a call.
Victor answered immediately.
“Lock the restaurant down,” Nico said. “Nobody leaves. Pull every security recording from nine until now. Find the table Sienna served at nine thirty.”
He listened.
His expression hardened.
“What do you mean?”
I watched him.
Nico looked directly at me.
“When?”
Another pause.
Then he hung up.
“What?”
He slid the phone into his pocket.
“The cameras stopped recording at nine twenty-seven.”
I felt cold despite the underground heat.
“When did Martin sit down?”
“About nine thirty.”
Nico turned toward the elevator.
“We need to leave.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere they can’t reach you.”
“I have an apartment.”
“They know where you work.”
“So?”
“If Martin put that card on you, they’ll assume you know what’s on it.”
“I don’t.”
“They won’t care.”
I looked at the black card in my palm.
Three minutes earlier, my greatest concern had been whether I had Saturday brunch duty.
Now strangers had entered a locked restaurant looking for me.
A missing accountant had secretly placed something in my apron.
Someone had bled inside Nico Valente’s car.
I swallowed.
“Can we just read it?”
Nico stared at me.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Martin Keller spent fifteen years managing money for people who do not forgive mistakes.”
“That sentence somehow created more questions.”
“We’ll answer them somewhere secure.”
He reached for the SUV door.
Then his phone rang again.
Victor.
Nico answered.
He listened for less than five seconds.
His face went completely still.
“What happened?” I whispered.
Nico lowered the phone.
“They found Martin’s coffee cup.”
“That’s good, right?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the receipt beneath it wasn’t for coffee.”
He held the phone toward me.
Victor had sent a photograph.
A small white restaurant receipt lay on a table.
On the back, written in hurried black ink, were six words.
May you like
SIENNA BROOKS. DO NOT TRUST NICO.
And beneath my name was tonight’s date.
