Chapter 1 - The Name He Should Not Have Known
The coffee hit Julian DeLuca across the chest.
He screamed.
Not the theatrical kind of scream people expected from movies.
Short.
Violent.
Surprised.
The silver coffee pot slipped in my hand while steam rolled across the front of his charcoal suit.
Every conversation inside Aurelia House stopped.
Crystal glasses froze halfway to mouths.
A woman near the chandelier dropped her fork.
Julian staggered backward into the edge of a dining table.
I held the empty pot in front of me.
“Scream at me again.”
The man to Julian’s right moved before I finished.
Nolan Reed.
Six foot four.
Black suit.
Shoulders wide enough to block half the room.
His pistol appeared in his hand and came directly toward my face.
“Boss, say the word.”
My pulse slammed into my throat.
So I was afraid.
Good to know.
My hands still did not shake.
Julian grabbed Nolan’s wrist.
“Down.”
“Boss.”
“Put the fucking gun down.”
Blood was already spreading beneath Julian’s white shirt.
Not from the coffee.
He had entered Aurelia House wounded.
I noticed it three minutes earlier when he and four armed men pushed through the private entrance after midnight.
The restaurant had closed to ordinary guests, but a private charity dinner upstairs was still ending.
I had been awake since six that morning.
Breakfast shift at Rosie’s.
Afternoon catering.
Then a server at Aurelia House called out sick and I took the emergency shift because rent was eight days late and electricity became optional only in theory.
Julian arrived bleeding and angry.
He demanded towels.
Then a first aid kit.
Then coffee.
Then he shouted because I moved too slowly.
That was when exhaustion became stronger than judgment.
Nolan lowered the pistol.
Julian stared at me.
“You’ve got a death wish.”
“You’re bleeding on a twelve thousand dollar carpet.”
His mouth almost moved.
Maybe amusement.
Maybe shock.
Then his knees weakened.
I caught his collar.
Not gently.
I shoved him backward against the table.
A bodyguard rushed me.
I swung the empty coffee pot into his forearm.
Metal cracked against bone.
He cursed.
I ducked past him, grabbed a white linen towel from a service station, folded it twice, and pressed it against Julian’s left side.
His hand snapped around my wrist.
“Don’t.”
“You want to die?”
“No.”
“Then stop moving.”
Blood pushed through the towel almost immediately.
Gunshot.
Entry wound high along his side.
No obvious exit from where I stood.
I had taken two emergency medical classes years earlier when I thought becoming a paramedic might be less expensive than college.
I never finished.
Still knew pressure.
Still knew pale skin when I saw it.
“Call 911.”
Nobody moved.
I looked at Nolan.
“Are you deaf?”
“We don’t call police.”
“Then move him yourself.”
Julian’s hand tightened around my wrist.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
His face had gone strangely focused.
He looked at me.
Not my uniform.
Not my hands.
My face.
Then the small brass name tag pinned above my pocket.
MAYA.
“You’re Maya.”
I frowned.
“It’s on the badge.”
He leaned closer.
His voice dropped.
“Maya Sullivan.”
Everything inside me stopped.
My name tag did not say Sullivan.
I had never served him.
Never met him.
Never knowingly stood within fifty feet of him before tonight.
“How do you know my last name?”
Nolan looked at Julian.
That frightened me more than the gun.
Because Nolan clearly had not expected the name either.
Julian released my wrist.
“Maya.”
“Answer me.”
“The Sullivan girl was supposed to be in Baltimore.”
“What Sullivan girl?”
His face changed.
“You really don’t know.”
A crash came from the restaurant entrance.
The glass doors burst inward.
Three men entered first.
Then four more.
All armed.
Nobody shouted.
Nobody asked for Julian.
Every weapon turned toward me.
Nolan moved immediately.
He stepped between us.
Two of Julian’s men drew.
The room erupted.
Guests dropped behind tables.
A chandelier reflected gunmetal from seven directions.
The man at the front of the new group wore a gray coat and no mask.
“Maya Sullivan.”
I stared.
Again.
He knew.
“Come with us.”
Julian pushed away from the table despite the blood.
“You came into my room pointing guns at my waitress?”
The man smiled.
“She isn’t your waitress.”
“She was five minutes ago.”
“This is not DeLuca business.”
Julian’s expression became cold.
“Everything happening in front of me becomes DeLuca business.”
The stranger looked at the bloody towel.
“You’re in no condition to negotiate.”
Julian picked up a steak knife from the table.
Almost ridiculous compared with guns.
Nobody laughed.
Then the stranger said:
“We only need the girl.”
My voice finally returned.
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“You have something your mother stole.”
My mother had been dead nine years.
I tightened my grip on the coffee pot.
“My mother worked payroll at a hospital.”
The man shook his head.
“No, Maya.”
Julian stared at him.
Then at me.
The stranger finished:
“Your mother kept books for Vittorio DeLuca.”
Julian’s father.
The man who built the DeLuca organization.
The man who had been dead for twelve years.
Julian’s expression changed.
He knew that name was coming.
I did not.
Then the stranger raised his gun.
“Last chance.”
Julian stepped in front of me.
Still bleeding.
Still burned.
Still dangerous.
“Nolan.”
“Boss.”
“Lock the room.”
The steel security shutters began dropping over the restaurant windows.
The stranger’s smile disappeared.
Julian looked back at me.
“If they came this openly, they think you already have it.”
“Have what?”
He answered:
“The second key.”
I had no idea what he meant.
Then I felt something cold against my thigh inside my apron pocket.
A small brass token my mother had kept on her key ring for as long as I could remember.
I had carried it for nine years.
May you like
And for the first time in my life, I noticed there was a number stamped into the back.
Continue to the next part: Armed men believe Maya possesses a “second key,” and the brass token she inherited from her mother carries the same number Julian has been searching for.
