Chapter 7 - THE MIDNIGHT STRIKE
The clock on the wall of L’Étoile Noir’s kitchen ticked past 11:45 p.m.
The restaurant was completely dark, closed to the public. The only illumination came from the pale moonlight filtering through the high street-level windows and the dim amber bulb burning above the walk-in cooler.
Sophie wore her black uniform dress and white apron, moving silently across the tiled floor like a ghost. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her hands were steady.
She had spent the last twenty minutes hiding in the dry storage pantry, waiting for the staff to clear out. Now, the coast was clear.
She crept down the narrow service hallway toward Monsieur Laurent’s private office. The door was cracked open by an inch, casting a thin slice of yellow light across the dark corridor.
Inside, voices murmured in tense, hushed tones.
"...the Moretti family is sniffing around," Laurent’s voice hissed, shaking with panic. "If Alessandro finds out we used his restaurant to funnel the fake Bordeaux shipments, he’ll feed us to the river rats!"
"Relax, you coward," a second voice replied.
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat.
That voice wasn't Laurent’s. It was smooth, cold, and dripping with an icy, familiar arrogance.
It was Camilla Russo.
Sophie pressed her eye against the crack in the door, holding her breath.
Inside the office, Camilla stood by Laurent’s desk, dressed in a sleek black trench coat, signing her name onto a digital tablet connected to a high-end shipping manifest.
"My father’s shipping conglomerate handles the customs clearance at the docks," Camilla scoffed, snapping the digital pen back into its dock. "Alessandro is too busy running guns and union strikes to look at wine logistics. As long as you keep pouring the cheap swill to his high-society clients, nobody will ever look twice at the container labels."
Laurent wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "And the girl? The little waitress who humiliated you at table four? What if she talks?"
Camilla’s lips curled into a vicious, ugly sneer. "Let her talk. Who’s going to believe a broke waitress over a Russo? By tomorrow morning, my father’s men will make sure she disappears so thoroughly even her landlord won't remember her name."
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Outside the door, Sophie’s blood turned to ice.
She raised her phone, hitting record on the high-definition voice memo app, holding it right against the crack in the wood to capture every single syllable of Camilla’s confession.
