Chapter 3 - Shadows Against The Glass
I backed away from table four with my empty tray held tight against my black apron, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My ponytail felt too tight, pulling at the skin near my temples, and the crisp white button-down shirt suddenly felt stifling under the warm ambient glow of the overhead chandeliers. I retreated behind the swinging wooden kitchen doors, slipping into the humid chaos of stainless steel, hissed line orders, and the sharp scent of roasted garlic and pan-seared butter.
Marcus, our head chef, was barking at a line cook over an overcooked filet, his face flushed red beneath his tall white toque. As I stepped past the pass, my eyes darting nervously toward the large glass dining room windows that looked out onto the blurred city lights, Marcus caught my arm in a heavy, calloused grip. His dark eyes narrowed, taking in my pale face and the trembling fingers gripping the edge of my tray.
"Hey. Where's your head at, kid?" Marcus muttered over the hiss of a sauté pan, leaning in close so the other cooks wouldn't hear. "Table four is Leo Moretti and his date. You don't daydream around people like that. You drop your plates, you smile, and you vanish. Did you mess up their order?"
"No, Chef," I breathed, forcing my voice to remain steady even as my gaze drifted back through the service window toward the dining room. "Just... feeling the heat tonight."
"Well, find some air after the dessert rush, but right now you keep your eyes on the floor," Marcus warned, shoving a fresh plate of sea bass into my hands. "Don't make me regret putting you on the floor tonight."
I nodded, gripping the warm plate, but I didn't head back toward table four. Instead, I hovered near the edge of the kitchen pass, where I could look out past the white tablecloths and the glittering crystal glassware toward the expansive glass windows lining the street.
The city outside was a smear of neon and headlights, the rain-slicked pavement reflecting the amber glow of streetlamps. But something else was moving out there.
My breath hitched. Emerging from the shadows of the concrete planters near the curb, two tall figures in dark, heavy coats detached themselves from the urban blur. They weren't tourists looking for a late-night bistro, and they weren't ordinary pedestrians cutting through the block. Their movements were synchronized, deliberate, and entirely too still. They stopped near the edge of the restaurant's frontage, right where the blind spot began near the side alley—the north exit. One of them shifted slightly, his hand resting near the heavy fabric of his coat in a gesture I recognized with a cold knot in my stomach. A weapon. They were staking out the alleyway, waiting for someone to take the bait and walk right into the narrow corridor.
Across the dining room, through the haze of candlelight and murmured conversation, I saw Leo. He hadn't touched his food. Instead, his heavy arm tattoos caught the warm light as he slowly moved his hand from the white tablecloth to signal a man standing discreetly near the mahogany bar. The man was one of Leo's associates, a bulky individual in a sharp suit who had been nursing a club soda all evening.
Leo didn't make a dramatic gesture. It was a subtle tilt of his chin, a barely perceptible flicker of two fingers against the polished wood of the table. The associate at the bar caught the signal instantly. His posture straightened, his eyes darting toward the front entrance before scanning the perimeter. The silent machinery of survival had just been engaged.
May you like
The napkin I had delivered—*Trap. Don't use north exit.*—was no longer just a desperate gamble from a terrified waitress. It was real. The watchers were out there in the dark, pressed against the glass, and the trap was set.
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