Chapter 1 - Shadows in the Flour Pantry
The shadow beneath the pantry door didn't just linger; it stretched, growing long and sharp against the cold linoleum floor of Ali’s Diner. Footsteps—deliberate, heavy, and echoing with absolute authority—crossed the kitchen tiles.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Beneath me, Daniel was barely breathing. His face was the color of wet cement, his lips parted as a shallow rattle escaped his chest. But strapped securely inside the double carrier across his lap, the two infant twins had gone completely still. The one holding my finger didn't let go; its tiny grip was surprisingly strong, an anchor keeping me tethered to reality while the world outside the pantry door threatened to cave in.
"Daniel," the voice called out again. It belonged to a man standing right outside our makeshift hiding spot. The tone wasn't frantic or rough like a street thug's. It was smooth, chillingly polite, laced with the casual arrogance of someone who owned the building, the street, and everything in it. "Drop the charade. You're bleeding out, and the perimeter of this block is locked tight. Nobody is coming to save you."
I swallowed hard, my mouth tasting like copper and dry flour.
The police are the reason I'm dying, Daniel had whispered in the alley.
Except the man outside wasn't wearing a police uniform. Through the narrow slatted vent of the pantry door, I caught a glimpse of a tailored navy suit trouser and a hand adorned with a heavy platinum signet ring. That wasn't a badge of law enforcement. That was a crest of corporate royalty.
"We checked the rear service road," a second voice muttered from near the prep tables. "Blood trail leads right to the back door. It’s unlocked."
"Of course it's unlocked," the first voice replied smoothly. "Men like Daniel always think they can find sanctuary in the filth. Little does he know, the filth belongs to us."
My mind raced. Ali, the owner of the diner, was an elderly man who lived three miles away and wouldn't be back until dawn. If these men kicked down the pantry door—which was held shut by nothing more than a flimsy brass latch and a stack of flour sacks—we would be dead in thirty seconds. Nobody would ever find Anna Bennett, the twenty-two-year-old nobody from the foster system who made minimum wage scrubbing grease traps.
I looked down at Daniel. His eyelids fluttered, a low groan vibrating in his throat.
May you like
Not yet, I thought fiercely. I didn't drag you through the rain just to watch you get executed over a sack of flour.
I reached down, carefully prying my finger from the baby's tiny hand, and grabbed a heavy steel rolling pin resting on a lower shelf. I braced my back against the wall, my bare feet planted firmly on the flour-dusted floor, and waited for the wood to splinter.
