Chapter 3 - The Walls Are Closing In
I slammed the kitchen doors behind me, pressing my back against the stainless-steel refrigerator as I fought to drag oxygen into my suffocating lungs. My chest heaved, and the diner around me blurred into a dizzying smear of chrome and fluorescent light.
“Hey, Emma! What’s wrong with you?” Betty called out, walking over with a stack of clean plates. “Booth four needs service. Why’d you run off?”
“I—I can’t do this table, Betty. I feel sick. Really sick,” I stammered, pressing a hand to my churning stomach. The nausea from the pregnancy, combined with the sheer terror of seeing one of Alessandro’s operatives, threatened to make me collapse right there on the checkered floor.
Betty took one look at my ashen face and sighed, her tough exterior melting away. “Alright, alright, go wash your face in the back. I’ll take the table. But you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Thank you, Betty,” I whispered, hurrying into the cramped employee locker room and locking the door behind me.
I leaned over the small porcelain sink, splashing freezing water over my face while my hands shook uncontrollably. How had they found me? Was it a coincidence, or were the Vitalis already tracking my movements? I had used a fake name at the hotel, but Chicago was their city. Every hotel, every upscale venue, every street corner bowed to their influence. It was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots.
By the time my shift ended, twilight had cast a bruised purple glow over the Chicago skyline. I avoided the main streets on my walk back to Liam’s apartment, taking twisting, convoluted alleys to ensure I wasn't being followed. Every shadow looked like a threat; every passing car sounded like an engine slowing down to snatch me off the pavement.
When I finally unlocked the apartment door, the warm, comforting smell of simmering tomato sauce hit me. Liam was standing at the stove in a t-shirt and jeans, stirring a pot of pasta.
“You’re back late,” Liam said over his shoulder, plating up two bowls. “I was starting to worry. Did something happen at the diner?”
“No. Just a long shift,” I lied smoothly, dropping my jacket onto the battered entryway chair. I forced a weak smile, walking over to the small kitchen island. “Something smells amazing.”
“Cheap boxed pasta and jarred sauce, but seasoned with love,” Liam grinned, setting a bowl down for me. But as I sat down and picked up my fork, the rich smell of the garlic and meat sauce suddenly hit my stomach like a physical blow.
A wave of violent nausea surged up my throat. I dropped my fork, slapped both hands over my mouth, and bolted from the table, sprinting back toward the bathroom just in time to lose whatever little I had eaten that day.
Behind me, I heard the clatter of Liam’s fork hitting the table and hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.
The bathroom door was open a crack. Liam didn't barge in, but his worried voice filtered through the wood. “Emma? Open the door. This isn't just a stomach bug. You’ve been throwing up for days, you’re pale, and you’re terrified of your own shadow. Talk to me. What is going on?”
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I sat on the cold floor, wiping my mouth with a wad of toilet paper, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I couldn't keep lying to him. I couldn't protect him by keeping him in the dark if the wolves were already at our door. With shaking hands, I pushed myself up, unlocked the door, and looked up at my oldest friend.
“Liam,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I need to tell you something. And once I say it, nothing will ever be the same.”
