THE DAUGHTER IN THE SILVER TRAY

They shoved me into the back of Luciano’s SUV. The doors slammed shut, and the tires squealed as we sped away from the pier, leaving Vincent and Anthony bleeding in the fog.

My heart hammered in my throat. I was wedged between two massive enforcers. Frank sat in the passenger seat, glaring at me through the rearview mirror.

"Where is the ledger, Anna?" Frank demanded.

"My name is Claire," I snapped.

Frank turned around, pointing his revolver over the seat. "Don't play games with me. The guys at the warehouse broke Margaret's fingers until she confessed. She said Elena gave you something this morning. Something to hide."

My blood ran cold. They broke her fingers. A fierce, blinding rage pierced through my terror.

Then, the memory hit me.

This morning, before my shift at Romano’s, I had stopped by Mrs. Russo’s apartment to bring her coffee. She had seemed frantic. She shoved a heavy, sealed bag of imported flour into my arms.

“Take this to the restaurant, Claire,” she had said in Neapolitan. “Put it on the top shelf of the pantry. Do not open it. Do not let anyone touch it until I tell you.”

I had thought she was just being eccentric about her baking supplies. I had left it exactly where she told me to.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, staring Frank dead in the eyes.

Frank cocked the hammer of the gun. "If you don't tell me, Margaret dies the second we pull into the warehouse."

"It’s at the restaurant!" I yelled, panic breaking my voice. "It’s hidden in the pantry at Romano’s."

Frank smirked. He tapped the driver's shoulder. "Reroute to the restaurant."

The SUV tore through the quiet downtown streets. It was past midnight. Romano’s was dark and locked.

Frank dragged me out of the car by my hair, ignoring my screams. He smashed the glass of the kitchen door with the butt of his gun and unlocked it from the inside.

"Show me," Frank ordered, shoving me into the dark, stainless-steel kitchen.

I led him to the back pantry. My hands shook as I reached for the top shelf and pulled down the heavy, white paper sack of flour.

I set it on the prep table.

Frank ripped the bag open. White powder exploded over the steel counter.

Buried in the center of the flour was a small, red, leather-bound notebook.

Frank snatched it up, laughing triumphantly. He flipped through the pages. "The old bat actually kept records. Every payoff. Every hit."

He looked at me, his smile turning cruel. "You were a good delivery girl, Claire. But your shift is over."

He raised his gun, aiming it at my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Crash.

The kitchen doors flew open violently.

Anthony stood in the doorway, his face covered in blood, holding a shotgun. He pumped the action.

"Drop it, Frank," Anthony roared.

Frank spun around and fired blindly. The bullet sparked off a stainless-steel fridge.

Anthony didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

The blast hit Frank in the shoulder, throwing him backward into the shelves. Jars of tomato sauce shattered, raining red over the floor.

Anthony ran forward, grabbing my arm. "Are you okay?!"

"Yes," I gasped.

I scrambled to the floor and grabbed the red ledger from where Frank had dropped it.

"We have to go," Anthony said, dragging me toward the exit. "Vincent called in every favor he has. He knows where they’re holding Elena and Margaret."

But as we burst out of the kitchen alleyway, red and blue lights illuminated the brick walls.

Three police cruisers blocked the exit. Cops piled out, weapons drawn.

"Drop the weapon!" the lead officer yelled.

Anthony slowly lowered the shotgun. He looked at the cops, then turned to me, his eyes filled with despair.