Chapter 1 - Ten Seconds to Become His Fiancée
Grace Avery backed into the diner wall and whispered: “Who are you?”
Vincent Moretti stepped between her and the men and noticed the brass key hanging from her apron.
Three letters had been scratched into it.
A.V.R.
Vincent stopped breathing.
They had not come because of a debt.
At eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night, Grace had been thinking about quarters.
Not killers.
She had spent the last twenty minutes counting the change from her tip jar beneath the yellow light above Booth Six, separating rent money from grocery money and wondering whether she could postpone paying the gas bill until Monday.
Forty-three dollars and seventy cents.
That was what fourteen hours of smiling at truckers, college kids, night-shift nurses, and men who snapped their fingers at her had produced.
Forty-three dollars and seventy cents.
Her basement apartment cost nine hundred a month.
The arithmetic had become a kind of private punishment.
Grace shoved the bills into her canvas purse and went back to mopping.
That was when the black sedan stopped across the street.
She noticed it because nobody parked there after the laundromat closed.
Three men stepped out.
Two carried wooden bats.
Grace’s hands tightened around the mop handle.
The third man remained near the car.
The diner owner, Mr. Kaplan, had already left.
The cook had gone home.
The dishwasher had called in sick.
Grace was alone.
The men crossed the street without hurrying.
That frightened her more than if they had run.
She reached beneath the counter for her phone.
No signal.
The diner’s ancient walls sometimes killed reception.
She looked toward the kitchen landline.
Too far.
The bell over the front door jingled.
The first man was broad-shouldered, middle-aged, with a shaved head and a dark denim jacket.
The second was younger, blond, heavily tattooed, with a black sleeveless shirt despite the cold.
Their bats stayed lowered.
That almost made the scene worse.
The older man stared directly at Grace.
“Grace Avery?”
She said nothing.
He smiled without warmth.
“That’s her.”
Grace took one careful step backward.
“I think you have the wrong person.”
“Your brother thought that too.”
Her stomach dropped.
“My brother?”
“Ethan Avery.”
Grace’s face changed.
She had not seen Ethan in eleven months.
He was twenty-four, reckless, charming, impossible to stay angry at for long and equally impossible to trust.
The last time he had appeared at her apartment, he had asked for three hundred dollars.
She had given him seventy.
He had kissed her cheek, promised he was getting clean, and disappeared again.
The man lifted his bat slightly.
“Your brother borrowed money.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Debt doesn’t disappear because somebody runs.”
“I don’t have his money.”
“We know.”
That answer confused her.
Then terrified her.
The blond man moved toward the counter.
Grace stepped back until her shoulders touched the wall.
“Listen,” she said. “I work here. I make eleven dollars an hour. Whatever Ethan told you—”
“Ethan didn’t tell us about you.”
The older man’s gaze dropped toward Grace’s apron.
Toward the old brass key hanging from a thin chain.
The key had belonged to her mother.
Grace had worn it since she was sixteen.
The man’s expression changed.
Not recognition.
Something closer to confirmation.
“There it is,” he said.
Grace instinctively covered the key with her hand.
“What?”
The blond man started toward her.
The front door opened again.
No bell this time.
Someone caught it before it could swing.
A man in a navy suit stepped inside.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders, perhaps thirty-five. Thick black curls were swept back from his forehead. His white shirt was open at the collar. A dark floral tattoo climbed the left side of his neck and disappeared beneath the shirt.
He did not look hurried.
He looked irritated.
The two men with bats froze.
Grace glanced from them to the stranger.
The older man spoke first.
“Moretti.”
The stranger’s eyes moved to Grace.
Then to the brass key pressed beneath her fingers.
Something flickered across his face.
Shock.
It vanished almost instantly.
The blond man shifted his grip on the bat.
“This has nothing to do with you, Vincent.”
Vincent Moretti looked at him.
“It does now.”
He walked toward Grace.
She had nowhere to go.
Every instinct told her to recoil.
But something stranger happened.
The men who had entered intending to frighten her suddenly looked frightened themselves.
Vincent stopped inches away.
His voice dropped.
“Trust me.”
Grace stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because you have ten seconds.”
He gently took her hand.
Grace’s breath caught.
“What are you doing?”
Vincent glanced over his shoulder.
“Saving your life.”
Then he leaned closer and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead.
Not romantic.
Not possessive.
Deliberate.
A performance for an audience.
When Vincent turned back toward the men, his hand remained around Grace’s.
“You’re looking for my fiancée.”
Silence.
The blond man actually laughed once.
It died immediately.
The older man stared at Grace.
Then Vincent.
“Fiancée?”
“That’s what I said.”
“We were given orders.”
“So was I.”
“From who?”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Ask your employer whether he wants a war with the Moretti family over the woman I’m marrying.”
Grace almost corrected him.
Then she saw the older man’s face.
All the color had drained from it.
He lowered his bat.
“We didn’t know.”
“You know now.”
The men hesitated.
The blond one glanced toward Grace’s necklace again.
Vincent noticed.
His fingers tightened around Grace’s hand.
“Eyes up.”
The blond man obeyed immediately.
That was when Grace understood something important.
Vincent Moretti was not merely dangerous.
He was the kind of dangerous that other dangerous men respected.
The two intruders backed toward the entrance.
The older man stopped at the threshold.
“This isn’t finished.”
Vincent smiled faintly.
“No. It isn’t.”
The men left.
The black sedan pulled away.
For several seconds, Grace did not move.
Neither did Vincent.
The diner became painfully quiet.
The refrigerator compressor hummed behind the counter.
Traffic moved outside.
Grace pulled her hand free.
“I’m not your fiancée.”
Vincent turned.
“Tonight, you are.”
“No. Tonight, I’m calling the police.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“So is grabbing a stranger and announcing you’re marrying her.”
“I didn’t grab you.”
“You kissed me.”
“Your forehead.”
“That does not improve this conversation.”
For the first time, something almost human appeared in Vincent’s expression.
Amusement.
It disappeared when his eyes dropped to the brass key.
“Where did you get that?”
Grace covered it.
“My mother.”
“What was her name?”
“Why?”
“Her name, Grace.”
She stiffened.
“You know my name.”
“So did the men who walked in here.”
“My mother’s name was Anna.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Anna what?”
“Avery.”
“Before Avery.”
Grace stared at him.
She had never known her mother’s maiden name.
Anna had avoided questions about her childhood.
She had claimed she had no family.
Grace remembered exactly one strange thing.
When Anna lay dying in a hospital room fourteen years earlier, she had pressed the brass key into sixteen-year-old Grace’s palm.
Never sell it.
Never give it away.
And if anyone ever asks about the letters, run.
Grace had thought morphine was making her confused.
Now three men had walked into a diner because of that key.
Vincent reached slowly toward it.
Grace slapped his hand away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“What are the letters?”
“You already saw them.”
“I want to hear you say them.”
Grace looked down.
“A.V.R.”
Vincent went still.
She noticed it immediately.
“You recognize them.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
The blunt admission surprised her.
Grace stepped sideways.
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going home.”
“Excuse me?”
“Those men know where you work. They probably know where you live.”
“Then I’ll stay with a friend.”
“They’ll know your friends by morning.”
“You expect me to go with you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Grace snatched her purse from beneath the counter.
Vincent watched.
“Your brother is missing.”
She froze.
“You know where Ethan is?”
“No.”
“Then don’t use him to scare me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
“You walked into my workplace, pretended to be my fiancé, told me not to call the police, and now you’re saying my brother is missing.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“I’m telling you that Ethan borrowed money from people who don’t usually bother collecting small debts personally. They weren’t here for seven thousand dollars.”
“How much?”
“That’s what he owed.”
Grace almost laughed.
“Seven thousand dollars?”
“He had been losing money in underground card rooms.”
“That sounds like Ethan.”
“He also stole something.”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to know everything else.”
“I know he broke into a storage unit three nights ago. I know the unit belonged to a man named Roman Vale. I know Ethan disappeared afterward. And I know Vale’s men showed up here tonight staring at your mother’s key.”
Grace remembered Ethan’s last voicemail.
It had arrived four days earlier at 2:13 a.m.
Gracie, I messed up.
She had deleted it without listening to the rest.
She hated herself suddenly.
“Roman Vale,” she repeated.
Vincent nodded.
“Who is he?”
“A man you never want looking for you.”
“And you?”
Vincent gave her a humorless smile.
“I’m the man he never wants looking for him.”
Headlights swept across the diner windows.
Vincent’s attention snapped toward the street.
A second black vehicle had pulled up.
Not the same sedan.
Grace swallowed.
“Friends of yours?”
“No.”
Four men got out.
Vincent reached inside his jacket.
Grace saw the outline of a handgun.
Her face tightened.
“Don’t.”
He looked at her.
“Stay behind me.”
“I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“You sound like you’ve practiced saying that.”
“I have.”
The men did not approach the front entrance.
They split.
Two went left.
Two disappeared down the alley toward the kitchen exit.
Vincent pulled out his phone.
“Marco. Rear door. Now.”
Grace’s heart pounded.
“There’s nobody back there.”
“There will be.”
“What does that mean?”
Vincent walked toward the kitchen.
Grace followed despite herself.
“Grace, stay here.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“You really don’t listen.”
“I was poor before tonight. I wasn’t stupid.”
That almost made him smile again.
Then they heard metal scrape behind the kitchen.
Someone was testing the back door.
Grace grabbed the nearest object she could find.
A cast-iron skillet.
Vincent stared at it.
“Seriously?”
“It’s heavier than your attitude.”
Another scrape.
Then silence.
Vincent positioned himself beside the kitchen entrance.
The back door handle turned.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
A voice called from outside.
“Moretti!”
Vincent said nothing.
“We only want the girl!”
Grace went pale.
Vincent looked at her.
That single look told her everything.
This had never been about Ethan’s gambling debt.
The voice came again.
“Give us Anna Vale’s daughter and you walk away!”
Grace’s fingers went numb around the skillet.
Anna Vale.
Her mother.
Vincent’s eyes closed for half a second.
Grace whispered, “You knew.”
“Not until I saw the key.”
“My mother was a Vale?”
Vincent did not answer.
Something slammed against the back door.
Grace jumped.
Vincent moved in front of her.
The lock shook.
Again.
Again.
Then stopped.
A phone began ringing.
Not Vincent’s.
Grace looked toward her purse.
Her phone.
Unknown number.
She pulled it out.
Vincent said, “Don’t answer.”
Grace did.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
A familiar breathing.
Her heart stopped.
“Ethan?”
A whisper came through the speaker.
“Gracie?”
Grace grabbed Vincent’s sleeve.
“Ethan! Where are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I found what Mom hid.”
Grace looked at Vincent.
Ethan continued.
“They know who you are now.”
“What are you talking about?”
A crash sounded behind Ethan.
He gasped.
“Listen to me. Don’t trust anybody named Moretti.”
Grace slowly lifted her eyes toward Vincent.
Vincent heard every word.
His expression did not change.
Ethan whispered one last sentence.
May you like
“Especially Vincent.”
Then the line went dead.
