Chapter 1 - THE TRAY AND THE TIMELINE
Rain struck the tall arched glass windows of the Gilded Cage with a constant, heavy cadence. Outside, the blurred lights of downtown Seattle warped across wet asphalt; inside, low amber chandeliers cast a warm glow across polished marble floors, velvet booths, and mahogany trim.
Behind the dark mahogany bar, twenty-seven-year-old Waitress stood smoothing the apron of her simple pale yellow uniform. Her brown hair was gathered into a slightly messy bun at the back of her neck, secured with two plain pins. Her pale yellow dress featured a sharp white collar that framed her neck, devoid of name tags or corporate pins. Two years ago, she had woken up in a public hospital bed on the south side of the city with a severe skull fracture, no identification, and a total void where her past belonged. She had taken the first low-profile job she could find, avoiding police stations, legal documents, and anything that might draw eyes to her blank history.
"Table one," a sharp voice cut through the soft ambient jazz playing overhead. "Don't drop anything."
Thompson, the forty-five-year-old restaurant manager, shoved a heavy crystal tray into her hands. Wearing a tailored charcoal suit with a silk tie, Thompson was known for his strict, uncompromising demeanor. He leaned in close, his cold grey eyes locking onto her.
"I don't care that you're not silver-service trained," Thompson whispered sternly. "Mr. Sterling requested immediate service, and the front staff is backed up. Move."
May you like
She looked across the expansive dining room toward the secluded alcove in the far corner. Seated in the primary corner booth was Adrienne Sterling, forty years old, the undisputed head of the Sterling crime syndicate. Tall, dark-haired, and wearing an expensive black tailored suit over a dark dress shirt, Adrienne sat with a posture of absolute authority. Surrounding his booth were four large bodyguards in dark suits, their coats bulging slightly near their armpits.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every muscle in her legs told her to turn back, but Thompson’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, guiding her out from behind the bar into the open floor.
