The wicks of the candles had burned so far down that the dripping wax resembled weeping pearls.

Clara was scrubbing a stainless-steel prep counter in the kitchen when the heavy double doors swung open. She expected her shift manager, ready to scream at her for letting Mila wander off.

Instead, a giant of a man in a tailored suit stepped through. Blood was splattered across the knuckles of his right hand.

"Clara," Declan said. It wasn't a question.

Clara dropped the sponge, her heart leaping into her throat. Mila was sitting on a stool nearby, coloring on a napkin. "Who are you?" Clara asked, stepping in front of her daughter instinctively.

"I work for the man whose birthday party you just crashed," Declan said, his voice a low gravel. "Grab your kid and come with me. Now. Your lives are in danger."

"What? No, I'm calling the police!"

Declan stepped closer, his imposing shadow covering them both. "The men coming through the front lobby right now own the police, Clara. Silas Thorne sent me to protect you because you showed him kindness. If you stay here, they will use you to get to him. We have thirty seconds."

Clara looked at the giant’s eyes. They were hard, but they weren't lying. She scooped Mila up into her arms, abandoned her apron on the floor, and followed Declan into the service corridors.

As they slipped into the underground garage and climbed into a black, armored SUV, Clara heard the faint sound of shouting echoing from the kitchen they had just left.