Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Kitchen
Before I could invent a safe, non-incriminating lie about dropping a memo, the fake server lunged. With a desperate growl, he whipped a ceramic-bladed stiletto from inside his chef's sleeve and drove it downward toward Adrian’s chest.
Instinct—honed by years of protecting my younger brother Owen from volatile creditors and chaotic apartments—took over. Without thinking, I grabbed a heavy silver water pitcher from a nearby service cart and hurled it with full force. It caught the attacker squarely behind the ear. He staggered, his knife-slash missing Adrian by a fraction of an inch, burying itself harmlessly into the wood of the table.
In a fraction of a second, Adrian’s real security detail swarmed the table. Three massive men tackled the assassin to the floor, pinning him with brutal efficiency while a fourth blocked the main dining room exits, ensuring no stray patrons caught sight of the blood pooling on the custom rug.
Vanessa tried to bolt toward the grand staircase, but Adrian was faster. He caught her by the forearm, his grip inescapable. "Where are your manners, darling? We haven't even toasted to our future yet."
"Let go of me, you monster!" she shrieked, all pretense of high-society elegance evaporating into vicious fury. "My father's men will level this entire building before sunrise! You think you've won? The Board already voted! The moment I don't check in by midnight, the Federal indictments drop, and your entire empire crumbles from the inside out!"
Adrian let out a cold, humorless chuckle. "Ah. The federal indictment clause. I was wondering when the Whitmore family clause would kick in." He turned back to me, the adrenaline still humming through his frame. "Mara, pick up that tray. We're moving to the private parlor upstairs. And don't worry about your shift—you just earned a promotion."
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As security hauled the thrashing assassin toward the service elevator and half-dragged a sobbing, furious Vanessa toward the private suites, Adrian paused beside me. He slipped a heavy, embossed black platinum card into the pocket of my black waitress apron.
"You have sharp eyes, Mara Bennett," he murmured near my ear. "In my world, sharp eyes are the only currency that matters. Let's go see who else in my life needs a wake-up call."
