Chapter 3 - The Livestream and the Trap
Back in the dining room of Bellanova’s, the party at Table 12 was enjoying their viral victory.
Madison Cole’s stream had jumped from eight thousand live viewers to over fifty thousand in less than ten minutes. The comment section was a blue streak of fast-moving text, emojis, and donations.
“Did she really dump Coke on a waitress? absolute savage 😂”
“The maid looked so crushed LOL”
“Who’s the guy laughing? He’s hot”
“Is that Evan Price? The guy from the law firm family?”
Madison leaned into the phone screen, tossing her bleached-blond hair over her shoulder.
"She told me her husband was coming," Madison giggled into the microphone, taking a sip of her Pinot Grigio. "Honestly, guys, I think he’s probably a line cook or a plumber. Should I order another Coke for him when he gets here?"
Evan Price took a long drag from his vape, blowing a cloud of sweet-smelling white smoke across the linen tablecloth.
"Don't waste the ten bucks on a Coke," Evan sneered, leaning back in his chair. "He’s probably working minimum wage at the dockyards. People like that don't cause trouble. They complain to the manager, get a free dessert coupon, and go home to their tiny apartments."
Across the table, another girl in their group, Chloe, looked around nervously.
"Hey... Madison, maybe you should take the video down," Chloe whispered, adjusting her designer handbag. "The manager is talking on the house phone, and he looks terrified."
"Let him be terrified," Madison dismissed airily. "My dad owns three auto dealerships in the tri-state area. Do you know how much money my family drops here? The owner of this restaurant licks my shoes when we come in for dinner."
She turned the camera back toward the hallway leading to the kitchen.
"We’re holding a live vigil for the waitress's brave husband," Madison announced to her stream with a mocking pout. "Let’s see if he actually shows up or if he's too scared to—"
The front doors of Bellanova’s didn't open. They burst inward.
The heavy glass and wrought-iron double doors struck the interior wooden casing with a violent CRACK that made two women near the bar scream.
Four tall men in black wool coats stepped into the foyer. They didn't look like bouncers. They didn't look like police officers. They moved with a silent, synchronized efficiency that made every instinct in every person inside the room scream danger.
Behind them walked Gabriel Moretti.
He wasn't wearing a coat. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned, his silk tie slightly loosened. He moved slowly, deliberately, his dark eyes scanning the dining room like a predator entering an enclosure it already owned.
The manager of Bellanova’s, a middle-aged man named Roberto, dropped his telephone receiver. It dangled from its black coiled wire, buzzing loudly against the wall.
"M-Mr. Moretti..." Roberto squeaked, his face turning the gray-white color of ash. "Sir... we didn't expect... nobody told us you were coming..."
Gabriel didn't look at Roberto. He stopped in the center of the main floor.
His eyes fell on the dark, sticky stain on the hardwood floor near Table 12.
He looked at the half-melted ice cubes scattered under a chair.
He looked at the empty glass sitting in front of Madison Cole.
Then he turned his gaze toward the kitchen door.
The door swung open, and Claire stepped out.
She had changed into a plain black employee t-shirt from the break room, but her brown hair was still wet, plastered against her neck. The smell of sweet, cheap cola hung in the air around her like a insult.
Gabriel took a single step toward her. His broad, scarred face softened by a tiny fraction—a fraction that only Claire knew how to read.
He reached out his right hand, his thumb gently catching a single, dry droplet near her temple, wiping it away with slow, reverent care.
"Are you hurt?" Gabriel asked. His voice was very quiet, but in the dead-silent restaurant, it carried to every corner.
"No," Claire said softly, looking up at him. "Just cold."
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Gabriel took off his tailored charcoal suit jacket. He draped it carefully over her shoulders, wrapping the warm, heavy cashmere around her dripping frame.
Then he turned around to face Table 12.
