Chapter 1 - The Waitress Who Didn't Back Down
Celia stepped toward the broken glass, and Mara grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t move!”
Lucian Vale arrived minutes later and found a black hotel key in his sister’s purse.
Three numbers had been scratched into its metal edge.
“417.”
Lucian stopped looking at Mara like she was the problem.
The trouble had started with a tray of martinis.
Mara Hayes had been eleven hours into a double shift at Bellini House when Celia Vale stumbled sideways and struck her elbow against Mara’s tray.
Four glasses hit the marble floor.
One shattered against the brass footrail.
The manager, Owen Price, appeared before the last piece stopped sliding.
“Mara.”
She knew that tone.
“I know.”
“Those are coming out of your pay.”
Mara looked at the blood beginning to bead along two of her fingers.
“Of course they are.”
Owen walked away.
Fourteen dollars in tips.
That was what Mara had earned after eleven hours.
Fourteen dollars, minus whatever Bellini House decided four martini glasses were worth.
Her younger brother Noah needed another respiratory treatment on Tuesday. The hospital had already called twice about the balance on his account.
Mara crouched to collect the glass.
Then she heard laughter.
The woman who had knocked over the tray was beautiful in the expensive, polished way Mara associated with magazine covers and hotel advertisements. Her champagne-colored silk dress probably cost more than Mara made in six months.
She was also spectacularly drunk.
One shoe was missing.
Her mascara had run.
Her dark hair hung damply around her face.
And she was laughing.
Mara stared at her.
The woman stared back.
Then the laughter died.
Her lower lip trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
Mara said nothing.
The woman looked down at the broken glass.
“I ruin everything.”
There was something about the way she said it.
Not dramatic.
Not spoiled.
Certain.
As if someone had spent years teaching her those exact words.
Mara’s anger weakened.
“Sit down.”
“I should leave.”
“No.”
“I have to.”
The woman stepped backward.
Mara saw the shard behind her bare heel.
“Don’t move!”
The command came out sharper than Mara intended.
The woman froze.
Mara caught her wrist and pulled her forward.
The glass missed her foot by less than an inch.
For several seconds, the woman simply stared at Mara’s hand around her wrist.
Then she began crying.
Not loudly.
That would have been easier.
She cried silently, shoulders shaking, trying desperately to hide it.
Mara sighed.
“What’s your name?”
“Celia.”
“Okay, Celia. Where’s your other shoe?”
Celia looked genuinely puzzled.
“I think Paris has it.”
Mara blinked.
“Paris the city?”
“My friend.”
“Good. That’s slightly easier.”
Despite herself, Celia laughed.
Owen appeared again.
“Mara, clean this up.”
“She’s bleeding.”
“So?”
Mara looked at him.
Owen lowered his voice.
“She has security. Rich people like her always have somebody.”
“How do you know she’s rich?”
Owen pointed subtly toward Celia’s open purse.
A black credit card rested inside.
Mara knew enough about the world to understand that certain cards made people behave differently.
Owen certainly did.
His irritation disappeared.
He approached Celia.
“Miss, would you like our private lounge while we contact your driver?”
Celia recoiled.
“No.”
“Perhaps security—”
“No!”
The panic in her voice made Mara turn.
Celia grabbed Mara’s sleeve.
“Please.”
Mara frowned.
“Who were you here with?”
Celia shook her head.
“Can you call somebody?”
Another shake.
“Family?”
Celia’s face changed.
“No.”
Mara picked up Celia’s phone.
Dead.
Inside the purse were lipstick, cash, the black card, and a hotel key.
No hotel name.
Only a room number.
“Do you know which hotel?”
Celia stared at the key as if she had never seen it.
“No.”
Owen muttered, “Leave her with security.”
Mara looked toward the entrance.
Two large security guards stood there.
Then she looked at Celia.
The young woman was shaking.
Not your problem.
Mara had heard that sentence too many times.
When her mother became ill.
Not our problem.
When her father vanished.
Not our problem.
When sixteen-year-old Noah collapsed during gym class and the insurance company demanded another form before authorizing equipment that helped him breathe.
Not our problem.
Mara hated those three words.
She pulled off her coat.
“Put this on.”
Owen stared at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking her somewhere safe.”
“Your shift isn’t finished.”
“It ended twenty minutes ago.”
“I need you to close.”
“You’re taking the glasses out of my pay.”
“Yes.”
“Then use the money to hire someone else.”
She helped Celia into the coat.
Owen’s face hardened.
“If you walk out—”
“Good night, Owen.”
Mara guided Celia through the door.
Cold sleet hit them immediately.
Celia gasped.
Mara wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Where do you live?”
Celia mumbled an address.
Mara stopped.
She knew that neighborhood.
Everyone did.
Gates.
Private security.
Homes worth eight figures.
“That’s forty minutes away.”
Celia leaned against her.
“I don’t want to go there.”
“Then where?”
Silence.
Mara looked at her.
Celia whispered, “Anywhere he can’t find me.”
“Who?”
But Celia had already closed her eyes.
Mara considered calling an ambulance.
Then Celia opened them again.
“No hospital.”
“You need somewhere.”
“Please.”
Mara’s apartment was six blocks away.
Six miserable blocks.
She made the decision she would later question a hundred times.
“Fine. You’re coming home with me.”
They walked.
Celia stumbled twice.
The second time she almost fell, and Mara caught her.
“You’re stronger than you look,” Celia murmured.
“I carry trays for people who think snapping their fingers is a personality.”
Celia gave a weak laugh.
Halfway there, she said, “My brother would hate you.”
“Wonderful.”
“He hates everyone.”
“Efficient.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
Mara kept walking.
“Probably not.”
“People are scared of him.”
“I’m currently scared of pneumonia.”
Celia suddenly stopped.
“Mara.”
It was the first time she had used her name.
“What?”
“If he comes…”
“Who?”
“My brother.”
Celia swallowed.
“Don’t let him scare you.”
Mara almost smiled.
“I’m twenty-eight years old, six hundred dollars behind on rent, and I spent this morning arguing with an insurance company about whether breathing is medically necessary. Your brother is going to have to work very hard.”
Celia stared at her.
Then she laughed.
A real laugh this time.
It lasted five seconds.
Then headlights swept across them.
Three black cars rolled silently toward the curb.
Celia stopped breathing.
Mara felt her entire body stiffen.
“Oh no.”
The first car stopped.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Doors opened.
Men in dark coats stepped onto the sidewalk.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
That somehow made them more intimidating.
The rear door of the center SUV opened.
A tall man emerged.
Dark hair.
Black suit.
White shirt open at the collar.
No umbrella.
He stepped into the sleet and looked directly at Celia.
His expression barely moved.
But Mara felt Celia trembling.
“Lucian.”
The man approached.
Mara instinctively kept her arm around Celia.
He stopped several feet away.
“I came for Celia.”
Mara looked him up and down.
He looked expensive.
Dangerously calm.
And furious.
“Good,” she said. “Next time come before she’s drunk, barefoot, and bleeding.”
Silence.
One of the men behind Lucian glanced at another.
Celia made a tiny sound.
Lucian slowly turned his eyes toward Mara.
“Do you know who you’re speaking to?”
“No.”
Celia whispered, “Mara…”
Mara ignored her.
“And right now, I don’t particularly care.”
Something almost changed in Lucian’s expression.
Almost.
His gaze moved to Mara’s stained waitress uniform.
Then to her bleeding fingers.
Then to Celia.
“What happened?”
“She broke some glasses.”
“Who was with her?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
Lucian looked at Celia.
“Celia.”
She turned away.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
Mara immediately disliked the command in his voice.
“She said no.”
Every man behind Lucian seemed to stop breathing.
Lucian looked at Mara again.
“You have a habit of interfering.”
“I have a habit of not leaving drunk women barefoot in bars.”
Celia unexpectedly tightened her grip around Mara.
Lucian noticed.
His face changed.
Only slightly.
“Celia,” he said, softer now. “You’re safe.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Lucian went still.
Mara felt that word land between them.
He stepped closer.
“Did someone hurt you?”
Celia’s eyes filled.
“I don’t remember.”
Lucian’s calm cracked.
Not much.
Enough.
“Who were you with?”
“I said I don’t remember!”
Her voice broke.
Mara put herself half a step between them.
“Back off.”
Lucian stared at her.
“She’s my sister.”
“And she’s terrified.”
“Not of me.”
“Then stop making her prove it.”
For the first time, Lucian had no immediate answer.
Celia reached into Mara’s coat pocket.
“No,” she whispered.
Her hand came out holding the hotel key.
Lucian saw it.
His eyes narrowed.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was in her purse,” Mara said.
Lucian held out his hand.
Celia refused.
Mara gently took the key instead.
The metal edge caught the streetlight.
Three digits had been scratched there.
Lucian’s expression emptied.
Mara had spent years serving people who believed money could hide emotion.
She knew what fear looked like.
Lucian Vale was afraid.
“Why does that number matter?” she asked.
He didn't answer.
One of his men stepped closer.
“Mr. Vale.”
Lucian held up one hand.
The man stopped.
Lucian looked at Celia.
“Who gave you this?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“You need to think.”
“I can’t.”
Her breathing quickened.
Mara felt it immediately.
“Enough.”
Lucian ignored her.
“Celia, where were you before Bellini House?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who took you there?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
She collapsed against Mara.
Lucian moved forward.
Mara caught Celia first.
“Stop questioning her.”
“She may be in danger.”
“She can barely stand.”
His eyes met Mara’s.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then Lucian did something Mara did not expect.
He backed away.
“Bring the car closer.”
One of his men nodded.
Mara looked down at Celia.
“You should go with him.”
Celia clung tighter.
“No.”
“Celia.”
“Please let me stay with you.”
Mara closed her eyes.
Of course.
Of course this was happening.
Lucian said, “Absolutely not.”
Mara looked at him.
“You don’t get to decide for her.”
“I am responsible for her safety.”
“You’re doing a fantastic job.”
His stare could have cracked stone.
Mara was too tired to care.
Celia whispered, “Just tonight.”
Lucian studied his sister.
Then Mara.
Then the apartment building behind them.
“No.”
Celia flinched.
Lucian saw it.
His expression softened.
“Celia.”
“I can't go home.”
“Why?”
Her lips trembled.
“Because someone there knew where I would be tonight.”
Lucian stopped.
“What?”
Celia looked down at the key.
“I remembered something.”
Mara felt Lucian's attention sharpen.
Celia whispered, “The man who gave me the drink.”
“What about him?”
“He said something before I blacked out.”
Lucian stepped closer.
“What did he say?”
Celia’s face drained of color.
“He said room 417 wasn't for me.”
Lucian stared at her.
“Then who was it for?”
Celia slowly lifted her eyes.
“For you.”
A phone rang.
Not Mara’s.
Not Lucian’s.
The sound came from Celia’s purse.
Everyone froze.
Mara reached inside.
There was a second phone beneath the lining.
A phone none of them had seen before.
Its screen showed one incoming message.
Lucian took one look at the sender’s name.
Then his face went completely still.
The name belonged to a man who had been dead for nine years.
May you like
And the message read:
ROOM 417. COME ALONE.
