Chapter 2 - The Alleyway Ambush
My shift ended at 2:00 AM.
The adrenaline had worn off, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a creeping sense of dread.
I changed out of my uniform, threw my damaged name tag into my locker, and walked out the back door into the freezing Chicago wind.
The alley behind Bellavita was usually empty, illuminated only by a flickering streetlamp.
But tonight, a black SUV was idling near the dumpster.
My instincts screamed at me to go back inside, but the heavy metal door clicked shut behind me, locking automatically.
Two men stepped out of the shadows.
They weren't wearing restaurant uniforms.
They were wearing heavy leather jackets, their hands shoved deep into their pockets.
"Ellie Hart," the taller one said. It wasn't a question.
"I don't have any money," I said, backing up against the brick wall. "Whatever you want, I don't have it."
"We don't want money," the second man chuckled. "Mr. Vincenzo sent us. He thinks you need a permanent vacation. You stuck your nose where it didn't belong."
They pulled out knives, the blades catching the sickly yellow light.
Panic seized my throat.
I looked around for a weapon, a trash can lid, anything, but I was trapped.
They lunged.
Suddenly, a blinding pair of headlights tore through the mouth of the alley, accompanied by the deafening roar of a V8 engine.
A sleek, bulletproof Mercedes slammed on its brakes, blocking the exit.
Before the car even stopped completely, the doors flew open.
Three men in tactical gear poured out, weapons raised.
But it was the man who stepped out of the back seat who made my attackers freeze in sheer terror.
Damien Moretti.
He wasn't wearing a suit anymore. He wore a dark henley that clung to his muscular frame, and his scarred face looked like a demon summoned from hell.
"Drop them," Damien ordered.
The two thugs dropped their knives instantly, raising their hands, trembling violently.
"Mr. Moretti... we... we didn't know..."
"You didn't know she was under my protection?" Damien asked, his voice deathly calm as he walked toward them.
He didn't wait for an answer.
With a terrifyingly swift motion, Damien drew a customized handgun and fired twice.
Not at their heads. At their kneecaps.
The two men collapsed, screaming in agony, clutching their shattered legs.
Damien holstered his weapon and turned to me, completely ignoring the bleeding men on the pavement.
He took off his heavy wool overcoat and wrapped it around my trembling shoulders.
It smelled like cedar, expensive cologne, and gunpowder.
"Are you hurt, Ellie?" he asked, his voice softening just for me.
May you like
I shook my head, unable to speak.
"Good," he said, gently guiding me toward his car. "Because you're not going home tonight. Or ever again."
