Page 81 of Masked Seduction
A crash interrupts her, loud and sudden. A chair scrapes hard against the floor. A scream, high-pitched and panicked. The front of the restaurant erupts in chaos, movement and shouting colliding in an instant. Diners are standing, some ducking. Others are grabbing their phones. Someone yells, “Get down!”
The air shifts. The mood fractures.
I turn sharply, every sense on high alert. The maître d’ is standing near the entrance, gesturing wildly at someone just out of view. The tension in the room isn’t random. It’s focused. Directed toward me.
I feel it, like the shift in pressure before a storm.
I slowly push my chair back and stand. Jenna remains seated, frozen in confusion. Our hands are still clasped.
I look down at her, voice low but firm. “We need to go. Now.”
She blinks up at me, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know yet. But I know it’s not safe.”
That’s all she needs to hear. She stands up quickly, grabs her bag, and slides instinctively into my shadow. She trusts me. And right now, that terrifies me. Because I have a sinking feeling that all this chaos, this threat, followed me here.
No matter where I find myself, I always know where the exits are. Part of the lifestyle. Every restaurant, every club, every venue, I clock the layout within minutes of walking in. And tonight, that observation just might save our lives.
I slide the Glock from under my jacket with my free hand and keep it low, angled against my thigh, half-shielded by the drape of my coat. I spot two men near the entrance. Black tactical gear, semi-autos in hand. They’re yelling but not firing. Not hurting anyone.
Not yet.
They’re not here for the patrons.
They’re here for me.
“Where the fuck is he?” one of them shouts.
I curse under my breath.
Two tables away, a family sits frozen in fear. Young couple, maybe mid-thirties, a little girl hugging her mother’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Jenna sees them too. Her body tenses beside me.
I meet the father’s eyes. “Come with us.”
He hesitates, eyes wide. I don’t repeat myself. I just give him a firm nod. He gets the message. We move quickly, quietly. Others begin to join us. The more people around, the better. A crowd makes us harder to isolate. Easier to disappear.
We reach the kitchen door just as it swings open. More armed men, shouting at the staff. “Get out! Now! Go!”
They’re clearing the kitchen, not executing it, which tells me what I need to know.
This isn’t a hit. Not yet at least.
Still, I don’t like the way they’re spread out, front and back, herding. Someone planned this with military efficiency.
I gesture to the small group of civilians toward the rear exit. “Go. Move.”
They quickly get out along with the kitchen staff. They’re safe.
The actions of these men tell me they’re under orders to avoid casualties. They’re here to frighten, to apply pressure for leverage. They’re not here for blood.
I reach for her hand again and press my mouth close to her ear. “Come with me.”
I take Jenna’s hand and guide her quickly from the kitchen back into the main dining room. The elegance we entered mere moments ago is shattered now—fine linens scattered, crystal stemware toppled, frightened patrons scrambling toward the doors in desperation. Five men are methodically clearing the place, weapons drawn, eyes cold and professional.
Agosti men.
My jaw tightens as I watch one of them roughly shove an elderly man toward the exit.
