Chapter 1 - The Table Nobody Was Allowed to TouchSerena Bennett had been working at Bellvita for four days when she made the mistake every employee in the restaurant had apparently been trained never to make.
She gave away Table Seven.
She did not know it belonged to Lorenzo Duca.
She did not know grown men lowered their voices when they said his name, that businessmen who had spent their lives intimidating everyone around them suddenly became polite when his car stopped outside, or that Bellvita’s general manager had once canceled a senator’s private dinner rather than let anyone sit at Lorenzo’s table on a night he might appear.
Serena knew only that an eighty-year-old man was standing near the entrance with one hand trembling around a cane while his wife tried to pretend she wasn’t worried about him.
Their reservation had disappeared.
The restaurant was packed.
And Table Seven was empty.
So Serena seated them there.
Forty minutes later, Chicago’s most feared mafia boss walked through the doors, looked at the elderly couple occupying the one table nobody dared touch, and asked to speak privately with the plus-size waitress responsible.
Everyone assumed Serena Bennett was about to lose her job.
Nobody realized that the dinner receipt sitting beside Lorenzo’s hand was about to expose the man who had been betraying him for years.
And Serena herself was about to become the one witness that man could not afford to leave alone.
At 7:43 on that Saturday evening, none of this existed yet.
There was only Arthur Miller leaning painfully on his cane, his wife Rose gripping his arm, and Victor Hale, Bellvita’s general manager, wearing the expression of a man whose expensive restaurant was being destroyed by one missing reservation.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Victor said for the third time. “There appears to have been a problem in the system.”
Rose smiled with the tired patience of someone who had spent more than half a century learning which problems were worth becoming angry about.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We can wait.”
Arthur looked at her.
“No, we can’t.”
She squeezed his arm.
“You can.”
“My knee disagrees.”
Serena heard them from several feet away while carrying a tray of wineglasses.
She was thirty-two, five-foot-six, full-figured, with auburn hair pinned into a bun that had already surrendered two loose curls around her face.
Bellvita’s burgundy uniform was elegant but unforgiving, and the narrow heels required by the dress code had started hurting before her dinner break.
Still, Serena knew what it looked like when someone was trying not to become a problem.
She had done it most of her life.
Arthur was doing it now.
She looked across the dining room.
Every table was occupied except one near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Table Seven.
It was beautiful, quiet, and large enough that Arthur could sit without squeezing between other guests.
Serena approached Victor.
“What about Seven?”
Victor was scanning the reservation screen.
“What?”
“For the Millers.”
He did not even look up.
“No.”
“Is someone coming?”
“Serena, find something else.”
“There is nothing else.”
“Then they wait.”
Arthur shifted his weight and grimaced.
That decided it.
Serena took two menus.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miller?”
Victor looked up just in time to see her leading them across the room.
His face changed.
“Serena.”
She kept walking.
“Serena.”
Rose glanced backward.
“Are we causing trouble?”
“No,” Serena said.
Victor looked as if he might disagree with enough passion to require medical attention.
Five minutes later, Arthur and Rose Miller were comfortably seated at Table Seven.
When Serena poured water, Rose touched her wrist.
“You saved our anniversary.”
Serena smiled.
“How many years?”
“Fifty-two.”
Arthur looked offended.
“Fifty-three since our first date.”
Rose waved dismissively.
“That first date barely counts. You took me to a diner and forgot your wallet.”
“I went back for it.”
“Three hours later.”
“I was nervous.”
“You were cheap.”
Arthur looked at Serena.
“This is what fifty-two years gets you. Public defamation.”
Serena laughed.
Across the room, another waitress named Nina Cole was carrying three plates when she looked toward the entrance and almost dropped all of them.
Serena didn’t notice.
She was listening to Rose describe how Arthur had proposed beside Lake Michigan in February because he had been too impatient to wait for warmer weather.
Then the room changed.
It did not grow silent all at once, but conversations softened.
A hostess straightened.
Two men at the bar stopped laughing.
Victor turned toward the entrance, then toward Table Seven.
Every bit of color vanished from his face.
Lorenzo Duca had arrived.
He stood just inside the restaurant wearing a charcoal-black suit over a dark shirt, no tie, his broad shoulders filling the cut of the jacket.
He was forty-one, tall and powerfully built, with dark hair swept back and a closely trimmed beard that made an already severe face look sharper.
Two men entered behind him.
They did not resemble friends.
Nobody asked who they were.
Lorenzo took three steps into Bellvita and stopped.
His eyes found Table Seven.
Arthur was sitting there.
Rose was sitting there.
And Serena Bennett, four days into her employment, was leaning slightly toward them while Rose whispered something that made all three laugh.
Victor reached Lorenzo so quickly he nearly collided with a busboy.
“Mr. Duca.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Still nothing.
“One of our new servers didn’t know the arrangement. I’ll have the table cleared immediately.”
That was when Lorenzo finally looked at him.
“Cleared?”
Victor swallowed.
“Yes.”
Lorenzo looked back toward Table Seven.
Arthur had placed his hand over Rose’s.
Serena was lighting the small candle in the center of their table.
“Who seated them?”
Victor hesitated.
Lorenzo’s eyes moved across the room and settled on Serena.
Victor followed his gaze.
“She did.”
“Bring her here.”
Serena noticed the staring about thirty seconds later.
First Nina.
Then Victor.
Then three servers pretending not to watch.
Then the tall stranger beside Victor.
Then the two men positioned behind him.
Something cold slipped down Serena’s spine.
She approached slowly.
Victor leaned close before she reached them.
“You gave away Table Seven.”
Serena blinked.
“Yes. I can see that.”
His eyes closed for half a second.
“That is Mr. Duca’s table.”
She looked at Lorenzo.
He looked back.
There was no anger in his face.
Somehow, that made him more intimidating.
Serena glanced toward Arthur and Rose.
“I didn’t know.”
“Clearly,” Victor whispered.
Serena lowered her voice.
“Do you have another table for them?”
“That is not the point.”
“It seems like the point.”
Victor looked ready to resign from civilization.
Lorenzo spoke for the first time.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Four days.”
“Four days and you’re already rearranging the restaurant?”
Serena glanced at Table Seven.
“I moved two people, not the building.”
One of Lorenzo’s men coughed suspiciously into his fist.
Victor looked horrified.
But Serena had grown up with a mother who believed wealthy people were still required to hear ordinary sentences.
She was frightened, certainly, but fear had never improved her vocabulary.
Lorenzo’s gaze remained on her.
“Did Victor explain whose table that is?”
“He did.”
“And?”
Serena hesitated.
Then she looked at Arthur.
The old man was rubbing one knee beneath the table.
“Can they finish dinner?”
Lorenzo looked at Arthur.
Then Rose.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“Yes.”
Serena blinked.
Victor looked stunned.
Lorenzo stepped toward her.
“But you’re coming with me.”
Serena’s stomach dropped.
“Where?”
“My office.”
“Am I being fired?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because someone put something on their bill.”
She frowned.
“I haven’t printed the bill yet.”
“I know.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Bring it when the table is finished.”
Serena stared after him.
Nina hurried over.
“You’re alive.”
“I think.”
“No one talks to Lorenzo like that.”
Serena looked toward him.
“Apparently I do.”
Nina whispered.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No.”
“Lorenzo Duca.”
“Should I know him?”
Nina stared.
“Are you trying to get murdered?”
Serena laughed nervously.
But twenty minutes later, when Arthur and Rose finished dinner, she understood that something was wrong.
The bill contained twelve items.
Four appetizers.
Two entrees.
Dessert.
Coffee.
Mineral water.
Everything seemed normal.
Then Serena noticed an additional line.
It had no food description.
No quantity.
No price.
Only three letters.
R-17.
She frowned.
She had seen coded order numbers during inventory.
But not on customer checks.
She touched the paper.
The ink looked different.
Then Arthur coughed.
Serena looked up.
The elderly man's face had changed.
He was no longer smiling.
He stared at the receipt.
“You see it.”
It wasn't a question.
Serena lowered her voice.
“You know what R-17 means?”
Arthur looked at Rose.
Rose nodded.
Then Arthur leaned closer.
“Miss Bennett, do exactly what I tell you.”
Serena listened.
“Do not give this bill to anyone except Lorenzo Duca.”
Her heart stopped.
“Why?”
Arthur squeezed Rose’s hand.
“Because the man who ordered this message is sitting somewhere in this restaurant.”
Serena glanced around.
Every diner suddenly looked suspicious.
Arthur continued.
“He has been killing people one by one.”
Rose's hand trembled.
“And tonight,” Arthur said softly, “he knows we’re here.”
Serena swallowed.
“Who is he?”
Arthur looked toward the bar.
A distinguished man in a navy suit sat there alone.
He lifted his glass.
At Serena.
She froze.
Arthur whispered:
“Do not look at him again.”
Too late.
The man's smile had already disappeared.
Serena took the receipt.
Then she walked toward Lorenzo's private office.
May you like
She did not know that the moment she crossed that corridor, she had entered a war that had nothing to do with a restaurant.
And everything to do with a dead man's secret.
Related Stories
