Chapter 1 - The Stranger I Called Tommy
Charlotte ran into the alley and shouted, “Tommy!”
The wounded stranger lifted his head.
A silver cuff link lay beside his hand.
Two letters were engraved into it.
“AD.”
Charlotte had just interrupted something much bigger than a robbery.
Ten feet behind her stood the steel back door of Bellamy's Diner.
It represented everything sensible.
A deadbolt.
A telephone.
A kitchen full of heavy pans.
Most importantly, a door she could close between herself and whatever was happening outside.
Charlotte ignored all of it.
The stranger was on one knee beside the brick wall, one hand pressed beneath his ribs. His expensive black coat was wet from the rain. Two men stood several feet away from him.
One of them took a step toward Charlotte.
“Wrong door,” he said.
Charlotte's heart hammered.
She was twenty-nine years old. She worked six nights a week. She worried about rent, her mother's medical bills, and whether the ancient refrigerator in her apartment would survive another summer.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for this.
But something about the stranger's face stopped her from retreating.
He wasn't begging.
That was the strange part.
He was injured, cornered, and outnumbered, yet his expression contained none of the panic Charlotte expected.
His eyes were moving.
Door.
Fire escape.
Men.
Charlotte.
Exit.
He was calculating.
Charlotte understood one thing immediately.
This man was injured.
He was not helpless.
“Tommy, you idiot,” Charlotte called.
Every face turned toward her.
She forced herself forward.
“I told you to wait by the car.”
The stranger stared at her.
For half a second, Charlotte wondered whether he would ruin everything by asking who she was.
Instead, something shifted behind his eyes.
Understanding.
Charlotte reached him.
“Play along,” she whispered.
Then she grabbed his coat.
And kissed him.
His entire body went rigid.
Charlotte's hands were trembling against his face.
She hoped the rain hid it.
The kiss lasted only seconds, but those seconds felt absurdly long.
Then the stranger's hand settled against her waist.
Not possessively.
Steadily.
He understood.
Charlotte pulled away.
She turned toward the two men.
“I'm his girlfriend.”
Neither answered.
“Whatever your problem is,” Charlotte continued, “you can deal with it tomorrow.”
One man stared at the stranger.
Something about his expression bothered Charlotte.
It wasn't anger anymore.
It looked almost like uncertainty.
The second man muttered, “Your boyfriend has made powerful people unhappy.”
“So have I.”
Charlotte slipped the stranger's arm over her shoulders.
“Come on, Tommy.”
He moved with her.
She expected to carry most of his weight.
Instead, he adjusted immediately, keeping enough pressure on her shoulders to make the performance convincing without actually forcing her to support him.
Charlotte glanced sideways.
His jaw was tight.
He was hurting.
Yet his breathing remained controlled.
Five steps.
Four.
Three.
The steel door seemed impossibly far away.
Charlotte waited for someone to stop them.
Nobody did.
Her hand found the handle.
She pulled.
They stumbled inside.
Charlotte slammed the door and threw the deadbolt.
Only then did she breathe.
The stranger leaned against a stainless-steel counter.
Charlotte hurried to the narrow window.
The two men were still outside.
They weren't approaching.
They were talking.
Then one pulled out a phone.
Charlotte stepped away.
“That can't be good.”
“No.”
His voice surprised her.
Deep.
Calm.
Almost irritatingly calm.
Charlotte turned.
Under the fluorescent lights, she could finally see him clearly.
Early thirties, perhaps thirty-five.
Dark hair.
Stubble.
Sharp features.
His black suit looked like something that belonged in a luxury hotel, not behind a twenty-four-hour diner.
Then she saw the dark stain beneath his coat.
“You're bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
Charlotte stared.
“Do you always answer people like that?”
“Usually.”
“You're welcome, by the way.”
That almost produced a smile.
Almost.
Charlotte pointed toward a chair.
“Sit.”
“I'd rather stand.”
“You're bleeding on my floor.”
He looked down.
Then he sat.
Charlotte grabbed the first-aid kit.
“Coat.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Excuse me?”
“Take it off.”
“You move quickly.”
Charlotte stopped.
Heat reached her cheeks.
“I meant because you're injured.”
“I know.”
“Then don't make it weird.”
This time she definitely saw the beginning of a smile.
He removed the coat.
Charlotte examined his side.
The injury looked painful but not catastrophic.
She cleaned what she could.
He didn't flinch.
“What happened?”
“An unpleasant disagreement.”
“With two men in an alley?”
“Yes.”
“At two in the morning?”
“Those are frequently the least pleasant disagreements.”
Charlotte stared at him.
“Who are you?”
Instead of answering, he studied her.
“What made you come outside?”
“I heard something.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Charlotte closed the first-aid kit harder than necessary.
“I saw someone in trouble.”
“You didn't know me.”
“No.”
“You saw two dangerous men.”
“Yes.”
“And came outside anyway.”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Apparently I make poor decisions after midnight.”
His gaze lingered on her.
“Apparently.”
Charlotte suddenly remembered the kiss.
So did he.
She could tell.
Neither mentioned it.
Instead he asked, “Why Tommy?”
“What?”
“You called me Tommy.”
“It was the first name I thought of.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“It doesn't suit me.”
Charlotte laughed despite herself.
“No. It really doesn't.”
Something softened briefly in his expression.
Then vanished.
He stood.
“Phone?”
Charlotte pointed toward the counter.
He didn't touch it.
“Your phone.”
She hesitated.
“Why?”
“I need to make a call.”
“Absolutely not.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“You don't even know who I am.”
“Exactly.”
“Yet you kissed me.”
“That was an emergency.”
“And lending me a phone requires trust?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her for several seconds.
Then he laughed.
It was quiet and brief, but unmistakably real.
Charlotte folded her arms.
“You find this funny?”
“A little.”
“Glad almost dying improved your evening.”
His amusement disappeared.
“You shouldn't joke about that.”
The seriousness of his answer unsettled her.
Charlotte took out her phone but kept hold of it.
“Number?”
He recited one from memory.
Charlotte dialed.
Someone answered after one ring.
The stranger held out his hand.
She reluctantly passed him the phone.
“It's me,” he said.
Silence.
“I'm fine.”
Another silence.
“No hospital.”
His expression hardened.
“Bellamy's Diner. Rear entrance.”
Charlotte frowned.
The person on the other end apparently said something important.
The stranger looked directly at her.
“No. She's not involved.”
Charlotte's stomach tightened.
“She was there by accident.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Ten minutes.”
He hung up.
Charlotte took her phone back.
“Who's coming?”
“My people.”
“Your people?”
“Friends.”
“You don't seem like a man with friends.”
Another almost-smile.
“You're observant.”
“Who were those men?”
He stood and slowly put his coat back on.
“They won't bother you.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
“What's your name?”
He buttoned the coat.
“Adrian.”
Charlotte's eyes dropped to the silver cuff link she'd picked up outside and placed beside the first-aid kit.
AD.
“Adrian what?”
His gaze followed hers.
Something changed.
For the first time, the stranger looked genuinely cautious.
Charlotte touched the cuff link.
“D?”
“Charlotte.”
She froze.
“I never told you my name.”
He nodded toward her chest.
Her diner name tag.
CHARLOTTE.
“Oh.”
That was embarrassing.
He picked up the cuff link.
“Adrian DeLuca.”
The name meant nothing to her.
Apparently her face showed it.
“You've never heard it?”
“Should I have?”
His expression became strangely thoughtful.
“No.”
Headlights suddenly swept through the diner windows.
Charlotte turned.
One black car.
Then another.
Then a third.
They stopped outside.
Doors opened.
Men in dark suits emerged.
Charlotte backed away.
“Those are your friends?”
“Yes.”
“You have terrifying friends.”
“They're very loyal.”
Someone approached the back entrance.
Three knocks.
Adrian's entire demeanor changed.
He moved between Charlotte and the door.
“Stay behind me.”
“You said they're your friends.”
“They are.”
“Then why—”
Three more knocks came.
Adrian didn't move.
His face had gone cold.
“That isn't our signal.”
Charlotte's blood chilled.
A voice came through the door.
“Mr. DeLuca?”
Adrian reached slowly toward Charlotte.
“Turn off the lights.”
She did.
The kitchen went dark.
Then Charlotte's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It had been taken through the diner window less than a minute earlier.
Charlotte was standing beside Adrian.
Underneath were six words.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED INSIDE, CHARLOTTE.
Charlotte looked toward the locked door.
May you like
The handle began to turn.
Someone on the other side had a key.
