Chapter 4 - The Gunpoint Interrogation
"Don't move," a low, gravelly voice rasped directly behind Evelyn's ear.
A heavy, calloused hand clamped down on her shoulder like a vise, spinning her around before she could even slide behind the kitchen swinging doors. Dante’s face was inches from hers, scarred, sweating, and framed by the chaotic orange glow of emergency lights reflecting off the broken glass. His pistol was pointed firmly at the floor, but the way his finger rested on the trigger made it clear he didn't hesitate.
"I didn't do anything," Evelyn blurted out, her voice shaking despite her desperate attempt to keep it steady. "I was just—I was just clearing tables—"
"Shut your mouth," Dante snarled, his grip tightening painfully on her uniform fabric as he hauled her out from behind the service station and dragged her across the littered floor toward the center of the dining room.
The heat from the blown-out north corridor was intensifying, sending waves of hot, acrid air rolling over them. Sirens could be heard wailing in the distance, cutting through the Chicago night, but they were still blocks away. Here, in the belly of The Obsidian, it was just them, the smoke, and the wreckage of a multi-million-dollar assassination plot.
Celeste was still on her knees, sobbing openly now, her expensive makeup running in black streaks down her cheeks. As Dante shoved Evelyn forward onto the marble floor beside the sobbing socialite, Celeste looked up, her tear-filled eyes wide with sudden, venomous realization.
"It’s her!" Celeste shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Evelyn. "That's the waitress! She was at the table! She's the one who slipped him something—she's part of the hit squad! Kill her, Lorenzo! She's working for the Giannellis!"
Evelyn hit the floor hard, scraping her palms against the sharp edge of a broken champagne flute, but she barely felt the sting. She looked up slowly, her breath catching in her throat as she found herself staring directly into the polished leather shoes of Lorenzo Moretti.
He stood above them both like an executioner at an ancient gallows. He hadn't lowered his gun. He looked down at Celeste, then shifted his gaze slowly to Evelyn.
"A hit squad," Lorenzo muttered, a cold, humorless ghost of a smile touching the corner of his lips. He crouched down slowly, bringing himself to eye level with Evelyn. The smell of gunsmoke, expensive cologne, and fresh blood hung heavily around him. "That’s an impressive title for a girl wearing a stained apron and a name tag that says Evie."
Evelyn swallowed hard, her mouth tasting like ash. "I'm not with them," she whispered, her voice raspy.
"Then why did you write the note?" Lorenzo asked quietly. His voice was dangerously soft, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying than a shout. "My men searched the perimeter three minutes after you dropped that napkin. They found a remote detonator wired to a C4 charge planted right beneath the floorboards of the north exit. If I had walked out that door at eight-fifty-five as planned... I wouldn't be here to ask you this question."
Celeste choked out a sob, trying to crawl backward. "Lorenzo, please, she's lying, she's trying to frame me—"
"Shut up, Celeste," Lorenzo said without looking at her. His eyes never left Evelyn’s. "I asked you a question, waitress. How did you know?"
Evelyn’s mind raced. If she lied, Dante would put a bullet in her head before she could finish the sentence. If she told the truth—that she had seen the text on Celeste's phone and recognized the posture of a professional betrayal because of her own wrecked childhood—would he believe her?
"I grew up in Cicero," Evelyn said, her voice finally steadying, infused with a bitter, quiet defiance that caught Lorenzo slightly off guard. "My old man was a gambler. He lost our house, our savings, and eventually his own mind to people who smiled right before they ruined him. You learn to read faces when you grow up like that."
She flicked her chin toward Celeste, who was shaking violently.
"She was checking her watch every thirty seconds. Her hands were calm, but her pulse was racing in her throat. And when her phone lit up with the north exit confirmation... I saw the reflection in the silver pitcher. She wanted you dead, Mr. Moretti. I just didn't feel like dying in a crossfire because your fiancée has terrible taste in hitmen."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the ruined dining room, broken only by the distant wail of police sirens drawing closer and the crackling of flames down the hall.
Dante stared at Evelyn as if she had grown a second head.
Lorenzo remained crouched, staring into Evelyn’s eyes for a long, agonizing moment. He was searching for any sign of a tremor, any flicker of deceit, any hidden wire or ulterior motive. He found nothing. Just the raw, exhausted grit of a girl who had worked fourteen-hour shifts in a city that chewed people up and spat them out into the river.
Slowly, deliberately, Lorenzo stood up.
He looked down at Celeste, who was whimpering on the floor, curled into a pathetic ball of silk and diamonds.
"Dante," Lorenzo said calmly, turning his back on the woman he had planned to marry less than an hour ago.
"Boss?" Dante grunted.
"Pack her up. Take her to the basement on Ashland Avenue. Let my brothers know the wedding is officially canceled." Lorenzo paused, his dark eyes shifting back to Evelyn as he extended a hand downward—not with a weapon, but offering to help her up from the broken glass.
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"And as for the waitress," Lorenzo continued, his voice dropping an octave as Evelyn hesitantly placed her hand in his firm, calloused grip and let him pull her to her feet, "she’s coming with us. The Obsidian just burned down, and I have a feeling Chicago is about to get a lot more dangerous. I need someone who can read a room."
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