4. Eva
EVA
“Yo, Eva,” my staff member Lily says with a box in her arms. “Where do you want the menus?”
“Put one or two on each table, and several at the bar,” I say. “And tell Pete his banner is cockeyed. He needs to hang it again.”
“Yes, boss,” Lily says.
I find the bar owner, Cliff, looking nervous as he reviews the list of specialty drinks.
“You good?” I glance over at him.
He smiles. “I’m good. Just…you know…hoping people show up.”
Cliff has been distilling his own vodka for five years, and this bar is meant to showcase the product. High-end drinks, appetizers, bar food, and entertainment.
“They will,” I promise.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping me with this,” he says.
“Well, you are paying me,” I say, grinning.
He laughs. “That is true. But I really liked your ideas, and I like how this feels tonight. Good stuff.”
“Eva?” Megan appears at my side, tablet in hand. “Band wants to know if they can push the second set back fifteen minutes.”
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“No.” I don’t look up. “That throws off the energy curve. We need a peak at nine-fifteen, not nine-thirty. Tell them to adjust.”
“Got it.”
She disappears again, efficient as ever.
I scan the room again, moving quickly and carefully. Entry flow, staff rotation, bar placement. Every detail is exactly where I want it.
Cliff hovers beside me. “So… we’re good?”
“We’re on track,” I say. “Relax. No one’s dying tonight.”
He laughs a little nervously. “That’s reassuring.”
“I aim to please.”
His eyes flick toward the bar. “Kitchen’s ready?”
“I don’t assume. I check.” I give him a quick wink. “I’ve got a solid caterer training your staff. They’ll be fine.”
“Okay… yeah, that’s—perfect.”
I pause, fixing him with a look. “If something slips, I hear about it immediately.”
“Immediately. Got it.”
“And stop pacing,” I add. “You’re making the place nervous.”
“I’m not—” He stops. “Okay. Not pacing.”
“Great.”
I head for the kitchen.
The moment I step in, it’s heat, noise, motion, but controlled. The catering manager catches my eye.
“We’re solid,” she says.
“Keep it that way,” I reply. “I’m stepping out for air. Grab me if anything shifts.”
She nods.
I turn and push through the back door.
Cold air. Quiet.
The alley is dim, with one flickering light overhead and the rest swallowed in shadow. Dumpsters. Delivery crates sit in a stack of 'empty' bottles.
I step further into the alley, heels clicking softly against the concrete, and that’s when I see him.
He’s leaning against the brick wall near the far end of the alley, half-shadowed, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
Kitchen staff uniform as the others.
Except he’s not like the others.
He’s built like a tank.
The kind of man who makes everyone else look undersized by comparison.
When he turns to look at me, I take an involuntary step back.
The scar is brutal.
It starts near his temple and cuts straight through his eye, nose, and mouth in one jagged line.
It looks like someone tried to split his face in half.
The guy takes a drag of his cigarette while I stare.
My cheeks heat.
Jesus.
I should probably stop looking.
The problem is, I can't.
Because somehow the scar isn't the only thing I notice.
He's broad-shouldered and intimidating as hell, with sharp cheekbones, messy blond hair, and eyes that seem permanently annoyed by the existence of other people.
He should be terrifying.
Instead, he's... distracting.
“Didn't your mom teach you it's rude to stare?” he growls, smoke curling from his mouth.
I blink and pull myself together.
“You need to get back to your station. We're starting soon.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him.
“And wash your fucking hands while you're at it. You've been out here hanging around the dumpster.”
One side of his mouth lifts, but there is no actual amusement on his face.
Something more dangerous than that.
He drops the cigarette, crushes it beneath his boot, and heads inside.
The man is enormous.
Even in heels, I have to tilt my head back when he passes.
I wait until the door closes behind him before letting out a breath.
Annoyed.
Flustered.
And more unsettled than I care to admit.
Because my first coherent thought after meeting that giant, scarred menace definitely shouldn't have been:
Well, that's a problem.
I blow out a breath and force myself to focus on the pallets.
Then I head back in to practice what I preach. I wash my hands, purposely avoiding the giant man, and return to the main bar area where people are arriving.
As the noise swallows me again, something lingers.
A prickle at the back of my neck.
Like I just missed something important.
I keep walking.
But I feel Him.
And for the first time tonight, something doesn’t feel entirely under my control anymore.
By eight-thirty, the place is humming exactly the way I planned.
The music is low and expensive, the lighting warm enough to flatter everyone. The bar is three-deep with people willing to spend obscene amounts of money on smoked rosemary cocktails and tiny, artfully arranged bites.
Servers weave through the crowd in smooth, practiced lines while I keep the staff moving before anyone gets overwhelmed.
Patrons must have a great time; their drinks are tasty, and the food is hot, fast, and consistent.
We want photos.
Reviews.
Social media posts from people desperate to prove they spent their night somewhere exclusive.
Every menu has instructions printed neatly in the corner:
Post your drink.
Hashtag the restaurant name.
It's free marketing that looks like customer engagement.
I make another lap around the room with a glass of sparkling water pretending to be vodka, smiling for photos, thanking local bloggers for showing up, and complimenting influencers on coats that probably cost more than my rent.
Everyone leaves feeling seen. That's the trick.
Cliff follows me around, looking increasingly emotional.
“This is incredible,” he says for maybe the fifth time tonight, voice rough with relief. “Eva, seriously. I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“Start by not changing everything tomorrow because you suddenly think you’re a branding genius.”
He laughs too hard at that, and I escape before he can attempt a grateful hug.
From across the room, Baron catches my eye.
He and his two guys have been camped in the corner all night, drinking bourbon, eating expensive sliders, and pretending to be regular customers.
It would almost be convincing if I didn’t know exactly who they were and why they’re here.
At one point, I spot them in a back booth doing shots of straight vodka.
Which seems deeply irresponsible for men supposedly working security on an illegal weapons deal, but whatever.
I’m not their mother.
Baron lifts his glass slightly, like a king acknowledging a servant who performed well.
I look away first.
What I can’t ignore is the fact that I still haven’t identified the buyer.
That bothers me more than it should.
He’s supposed to be here already.
That was the plan: blend into the crowd, wait for the room to thin out, then move the deal through the alley while the staff cleaned up after the event.
Simple.
Quiet.
Efficient.
At least, that’s how Baron described it.
But I’ve been scanning faces all night, and nobody stands out in the way I expected. No obvious criminals. No twitchy bodyguards. No rich asshole practically vibrating with illegal intent.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the real players don’t look dangerous at all.
Or maybe Baron did his job better than I gave him credit for.
Either way, the uncertainty keeps nagging at me.
By ten-thirty, the room starts thinning naturally.
The first crowd leaves buzzing and happy. They clap Cliff on the shoulder on their way out, thanking him for the drinks, the atmosphere, and the food.
Cliff looks seconds away from crying every time it happens.
The second lingers over final cocktails while the staff quietly shifts into soft-close mode, clearing glasses and wiping surfaces without making it obvious we’re gently herding people toward the exits.
I do one last pass through the kitchen.
No disasters.
No fires.
No one is crying in the walk-in cooler.
I'll take it.
When I head back out front, Cliff is waiting near the host stand, looking completely overwhelmed.
“I think we actually did it,” he says.
I glance around the room.
Half-empty tables.
Warm light.
Empty glasses.
It's the kind of mess you get after a successful opening night. Costly, but worth it.
“Looks like it,” I say.
He beams. “You’re a genius.”
“I know.”
That gets a real laugh out of him.
I pat his arm, polished professionalism back in place.
“Go home eventually, Cliff. Tomorrow you get to wake up owning a place people actually want to come to.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“I’ll blast social tomorrow,” I tell him. “Then we’ll do a proper postmortem next week.”
He nods. “Perfect.”
I hug Cliff before heading out the front door.
We’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before the bar staff starts hauling trash and recycling through the back alley.
Fifteen minutes to move illegal weapons through the rear of a trendy upscale cocktail bar.
That's multitasking, Chicago style.
The night air hits cool against my skin as I take the long way around the block. My heels click sharply and fast against the pavement. My pulse is already picking up.
By the time I slip into the alley, Baron and his men are waiting.
“Stand back and let the men do their thing,” Baron says. “Wouldn’t want daddy’s little girl getting hurt.”
What the actual fuck?
I want to stab him in the throat with one of Cliff’s artisanal cheese knives.
Condescending prick.
I smile anyway.
“I built the cover for this entire operation,” I say sweetly. “I think I’ve earned the right to watch.”
Baron’s gaze hardens. “You’ve earned the right to do as you’re told.”
I fucking hate him.
Before I can answer, headlights sweep across the alley.
A sleek black SUV glides to a stop, engine idling low and smooth.
My heartbeat kicks harder.
Finally.
A man steps from the passenger side wearing a dark wool coat, composed in that terrifyingly calm way rich criminals always seem to be.
He says something in Russian.
Baron answers immediately.
That catches me off guard.
Baron speaks Russian?
Since when?
The two of them continue talking while I stand there with half the information, like a child stuck at the adult table.
The Russian gestures toward the pallets.
“He wants to see,” Baron says.
One of the men peels back the covering just enough to expose the weapons beneath.
The Russian crouches, inspects the shipment, then nods once.
Satisfied.
He pulls out his phone and angles the screen toward Baron.
Payment confirmation.
Transfer complete.
“Money’s there,” Baron says before slipping back into Russian again.
The entire exchange feels terrifyingly professional.
Efficient.
Quiet.
Routine.
And for one suspended second, I understand why men like my father love this world so much.
This is the closest I’ve ever been to the real thing.
Not charity events.
Not overheard conversations.
Not carefully censored stories.
My pulse pounds in my throat.
I try to absorb everything.
The posture.
The coded language.
The quick handoffs.
Adrenaline surges through me as I stand in a dark alley watching illegal weapons change hands.
The craziest part?
It's happening because I made the business next door respectable enough to hide it.
My father would lose his mind if he knew I was standing here.
Then everything shatters.
The back door slams open.
The Russian’s eyes snap past Baron.
Past me.
Toward the door.
His expression changes instantly.
I turn, and the massive guy from earlier comes out of nowhere with a garbage bag in one hand.
He drops it.
A knife flashes.
Baron’s men never even see him coming.
One second, they’re reaching for the pallets.
Next, they’re choking on their own blood.
Wet choking sounds fill the alley as both men collapse, hands clamped uselessly over their throats as blood pours through their fingers before falling to the ground.
A scream claws up my throat, but shock traps it there.
The Russian starts shouting immediately, backing toward the SUV, either trying to flee or reach for a weapon.
Two cars fly in from opposite ends of the alley, boxing in the SUV.
Baron pulls his weapon but seems unsure where to fire. He looks at me, almost like he thinks I set him up. It would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying.
The huge man crashes into him before he can fire properly.
They hit the pavement hard.
Baron fights viciously, trying to wrench the gun around while the bigger man slams his wrist against the concrete.
The shot goes off.
Baron goes still.
For one frozen heartbeat, nobody moves.
Then the alley explodes.
Men surge toward the pallets.
Doors slam.
Orders bark through the darkness.
Another man steps out beside the SUV and calmly puts a silenced round into the Russian's head.
Pop.
The body drops.
Survival finally punches through the shock.
I run.
My heels fly off somewhere behind me as I sprint for the street.
My car’s right out front.
I just need to make it there.
Something built like a freight train slams into me from behind.
I hit the pavement hard enough to see stars.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
I bite down hard.
Someone swears.
I twist violently, clawing and kicking like a feral animal. My nails rake skin. I land an elbow somewhere solid. Another curse cuts through the alley.
“Get the bag,” somebody snarls.
No.
No, no, no.
Rough burlap drops over my head.
Darkness.
Dust floods my mouth as I scream into the fabric.
I thrash harder.
Whoever has me barely seems to notice.
He's all muscle and brute force, hauling me around like I weigh nothing.
Plastic bites into my wrists.
A zip tie.
Then I’m lifted completely off the ground, face down over someone’s shoulder.
I buck hard enough to bruise myself against him, but it does nothing.
The world tilts. A car door opens.
And then I’m thrown into what feels like a trunk.
Metal. Carpet. No room.
The door slams.
Engine revs.
Everything goes black.
My chest heaves as I claw uselessly at the bag over my head, fingers shaking too hard to untie anything.
Outside, tires squeal.
The car surges forward.
Beneath the panic, one ugly truth settles into my bones.
Baron might be dead.
And I've just been kidnapped.