Chapter 3.

CHAPTER 3: The Threat and the Deal

My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears.

The man from my kitchen is walking toward me. Through the crowd. People move out of his way like he's made of fire.

30 seconds until he reaches me.

Should I run? Where would I even go?

Before he reaches me, every phone in the room buzzes at the exact same time.

Everyone reach for their phones, I look at mine.

Mass text: Building lockdown in effect. No one leaves until I find what belongs to me.

Confusion spreads through the crowd.

"What's going on?"

"Is this a joke?"

Then the main doors SLAM shut.

Heavy. Metallic. Electronic locks clicking into place.

Someone screams. The room explodes into chaos, people scatter through the noise, shoving, trying to get to the exits.

Armed men in black tactical suits pour through the side entrances. They don't look like regular security. They move like soldiers.

I press myself against the wall, trying to disappear. The man from my kitchen stops walking toward me, then changes direction.

Now he's moving methodically through the crowd. Checking faces. Checking hands.

Searching for something.

The room goes quiet.

The kind of quiet that happens when everyone realizes someone they don't like is going to point at them.

I try to blend in with the other servers. Duck my head. Make myself small.

It doesn't work.

He stops directly in front of me.

Doesn't say anything. He just pulls out that leather notebook, and shows me what he wrote:

Where did you find this?

He points at something on my apron.

I look down.

My nightingale keychain.

The one I've carried for seventeen years.

My mouth goes dry.

"Subway," I lie. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Three days ago. Someone dropped it."

He studies my face with those cold gray eyes.

Writes: You're lying.

My heart hammers. How does he KNOW?

But I understand why. We'll discuss it later.

Later? What does he mean later?

Come with me.

"No."

Then everyone here dies.

I look around. Count automatically. 147 innocent people trapped because of... what? My keychain?

"You're insane."

He doesn't deny it.

Just writes: Probably. But I'm the only thing standing between you and something worse. Come with me. Now.

Before I can respond, someone grabs my wrist.

Richard Ashford, the third.

I've served him before. Old money. Entitled attitude. Smells like expensive bourbon.

"Hey sweetheart, stop talking to this guy and bring me another scotch. And your number while you're at it."

I pause for half a second.

Is he blind, or mentally unavailable?

His grip hurts. I try to pull away.

"Sir, let go—"

"Don't be difficult. I tip well for pretty girls who know their place."

I'm about to knee him where it counts, when the man from my kitchen MOVES.

I don't even see it happen.

One second Richard is grabbing me.

The next second he's on the ground, screaming. His wrist is bent at a very wrong angle.

The man puts his foot on Richard's chest. Holding him down; looks down at Richard like he's studying a bug.

Then he pulls out his notebook. Writes something. Shows it to Richard.

I don't see what it says. But Richard's face goes white as paper.

"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry! Christ, I'm sorry!"

The man removes his foot. Richard scrambles away, cradling his wrist.

The entire room goes silent. Everyone is staring.

The man turns back to me.

Writes: No one touches you. Ever. Understood?

I nod. Because I can't speak. Too stunned.

Now. We're leaving.

My brain is screaming: He just broke someone's wrist for TOUCHING me. What would he do if I said no?

I don't want to find out.

He gestures toward a side door.

I should refuse. Should scream for help.

But 147 people are locked in here because of my keychain. And this man just broke someone's wrist like it was nothing.

What would he do to all these people if I don't cooperate?

I stay silent and follow him.

The door closes behind us.

Private hallway. Expensive paintings on the walls. Thick carpet.

He takes me to a private room.Expensive furniture. Soundproof walls and windows that don't open.

"Am I being kidnapped?" I ask.

He writes: No. You can leave anytime.

"Really?"

Write: Really. But I'd advise against it.

"Why?"

Write: Because the people who sent that warning text are outside waiting for you.

My blood freezes.

The text from earlier said to trust no one…

"Who sent it?"

Someone trying to scare you into running. So they could grab you off the street.

"Grab me for WHAT?"

He doesn't answer.

Just shows me his phone.

A photograph of a keychain.

Identical to mine.

"That's..."

He writes quickly: Mine. It was stolen from my vault three weeks ago.

I look at my keychain. At his photo. They're exact matches.

"I don't understand."

My sister had two of these keychains. She died seventeen years ago. One was recovered from the fire. The other was in my possession—until someone broke into the most secure vault in the city and stole it.

"What fire?"

He writes a date: August 4, 2007.

The world, as I know it, stops.

That's the date Mom died. The same day I found my keychain.

He's watching my reaction closely.

Writes: You remember.

"I remember the DATE. I don't remember what happened."

Nothing? No details?

I close my eyes. Try to force my brain to remember. Usually my memory is perfect. I remember everything.

But that night? Just pieces. Smoke. Screaming. Heat. Sirens.

"No. Just fragments. Why CAN'T I remember? I remember everything else.”

He writes: Maybe your brain is protecting you from something you're not ready to know.

"What do you want from me?"

Someone broke into my vault. They used technology that shouldn't exist. You're good with computers. I know because you hack into corporate systems to pay for hospital bills.

He knows about that. Of course he does.

"So what? You want me to find your thief?"

Yes.

"Why would I help you?"

Because whoever stole from me knows about you. They're the ones who sent that warning text. They want you scared., running. Easy to grab.

"Why would anyone want me?"

He just writes: That's complicated.

"Then un-complicate it."

Long pause.

Then he writes: Your mother had something people wanted. Powerful people. They think you have it too.

"What thing?"

I can't explain yet. You're not ready.

"That's NOT an answer!"

It's the only answer I can give until I know I can trust you.

I want to scream. But deep down, I know he's right about one thing.

Someone IS watching me.

"What are you offering me?"

He writes carefully: Protection. For you and your brother. Resources. A life where you don't work three jobs and drown in debt. Help me find who stole from me, and I'll keep you safe from everyone else.

"And if I say no?"

Then you walk out that door. And I give you maybe four hours before they find you.

I'm about to give him a stern reply, when my phone rings.

Blocked number.

My hands shake as I answer. "Hello?"

A distorted voice. Mechanicall and creepy.

"Iris Hale. Stop talking to Dante Vitale."

So that's his name. Dante. "Who is this?"

"Memorial Hospital. Oncology. Room 304. Your brother Mason receives his 9 PM medication in exactly eight minutes."

No.

No no no.

"Don't you DARE—"

"The nurse entering his room has a syringe. But it doesn't contain his regular medication. It contains potassium chloride. He'll be dead in ninety seconds. Unless you walk away from Dante Vitale. Right. Now."

"I'll do ANYTHING. Please don't hurt him—"

"Leave the building. Alone. We'll be in touch."

The line goes dead. And I'm shaking so hard I drop my phone.

Dante, who has been watching me since, writes quickly: What happened?

"They have Mason." My voice breaks. "They're going to kill him. I have to go. I have to—"

He grabs my arm. Not rough. Just grounding. Keeping me from running.

Writes fast: What hospital? What room?

"Memorial. Room 304. They said eight minutes… I have to GO—"

He's already on his phone.

He makes three quick taps, and someone answers.

He taps out a pattern. Morse code maybe? Or sign language?

Then he turns his phone so I can see the screen. My people are already there. Your brother is safe.

"How—"

I have men protecting that hospital 24/7. They've been there for six months. No one gets near your brother without going through them first.

"You've been protecting Mason?" My voice comes out as a whisper. "For six months?"

He nods. Writes: Yes.

"Why?"

Because he's your weakness. Anyone who knows about you knows that. I couldn't let them use him against you.

My legs feel weak. I sink into a chair.