Chapter 2 - THE NAME EVERYONE FEARED
The ambulance arrived eight minutes later.
By then, the restaurant had stopped pretending dinner could continue normally.
People whispered.
Phones appeared beneath tables.
Marcus stood beside the service station making frantic calls.
Ethan Caldwell had moved toward the bar with his friends, but he kept glancing at Victor.
Victor remained near me.
Not close enough to make me uncomfortable.
Close enough that no one else approached.
A paramedic named Kelly examined my elbow.
“Can you straighten it?”
I did.
“Good. Hip?”
“Sore.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
She helped me onto a stretcher.
Humiliation burned hotter than the pain.
I had spent years trying not to become someone people pitied.
Now Manhattan’s wealthiest dining room was watching me get wheeled away.
I covered my face.
Then Victor stepped beside the stretcher.
“Anna.”
I lowered my hand.
“You have anyone we should call?”
“My roommate.”
“Name?”
“Jasmine.”
I gave him the number.
He passed it to one of his men.
I blinked.
“One of your men?”
Victor almost smiled.
“Assistant.”
The assistant was six foot four and looked like he could carry a refrigerator.
“Right.”
Victor looked toward the doors.
“You’ll be taken care of.”
I didn’t know what that meant.
“Mr. DeLuca—”
“Victor.”
“Victor, I don’t need charity.”
His eyes met mine.
“Neither do I.”
That confused me.
Before I could ask, Kelly began rolling me away.
As the doors opened, I looked back.
Ethan was saying something to Victor.
I couldn’t hear the words.
I saw Victor’s response.
Nothing.
He simply stared at Ethan until Ethan stopped talking.
At Mount Sinai, doctors determined I had no fractures.
Severe bruising.
A sprained wrist.
A cut on my palm.
I was lucky.
Jasmine arrived wearing sweatpants, a winter coat, and fuzzy slippers.
She burst through the curtain.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m okay.”
She hugged me anyway.
Then pulled back.
“You’re famous.”
“What?”
She shoved her phone toward my face.
A video filled the screen.
Me.
On the restaurant floor.
Ethan standing above me.
The caption read:
BILLIONAIRE’S SON SHOVES WAITRESS IN MANHATTAN RESTAURANT.
Views: 418,000.
“That can’t be real.”
“It’s been online twenty minutes.”
My stomach turned.
Jasmine swiped.
Another video.
Different angle.
Nine hundred thousand views.
Another.
Two million.
“No.”
“Anna—”
“No, no, no.”
I took the phone.
Comments moved too fast to read.
People wanted Ethan arrested.
People wanted him sued.
People wanted to know who I was.
Someone had already found my name badge in a screenshot.
ANNA.
Others identified the restaurant.
Then came the clips of Victor standing.
Those had their own captions.
WHEN VICTOR DELUCA STANDS UP, YOU KNOW YOU MESSED UP.
WHO IS TABLE 23 GUY?
ETHAN CALDWELL REALIZED HE PICKED THE WRONG NIGHT.
I stared at the screen.
“This is insane.”
Jasmine sat beside me.
“Your life just changed.”
“I don’t want my life changed.”
There was a knock against the curtain.
A hospital administrator stepped inside.
“Ms. Martinez?”
“Yes?”
“Your expenses tonight have been covered.”
I looked at Jasmine.
“By who?”
The administrator hesitated.
“A representative of DeLuca Holdings.”
Of course.
I closed my eyes.
Victor.
“I didn’t authorize that.”
“He already did.”
“I’m paying him back.”
Jasmine snorted.
“With what? Your hundred and eighty-seven dollars?”
I glared at her.
Her face changed.
“How did I know the number?”
“You left your banking app open this morning.”
“Great.”
The hospital discharged me at 11:36 p.m.
Outside, three reporters were waiting.
“Anna!”
“Ms. Martinez!”
“Are you pressing charges?”
“What happened inside?”
“Did Ethan Caldwell apologize?”
Jasmine grabbed my hand.
A black SUV rolled toward the curb.
The rear door opened.
Victor’s giant “assistant” stepped out.
“Ms. Martinez.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Mr. DeLuca asked me to make sure you got home safely.”
“I can take a cab.”
The reporters pushed closer.
He looked at them.
They stopped.
I sighed.
“Fine.”
Jasmine climbed in first.
The assistant introduced himself as Luca Moretti.
The vehicle moved through Manhattan.
My phone buzzed constantly.
Unknown numbers.
Social media requests.
News organizations.
I turned it off.
Then Luca handed me a small card.
“Mr. DeLuca’s number.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Maybe not tonight.”
I took the card anyway.
When we reached Queens, there were already two people standing near my apartment entrance with cameras.
“How did they find me?”
Jasmine cursed.
Luca studied them.
“You shouldn’t stay here tonight.”
“It’s my apartment.”
“It’s also public now.”
“I’m not going to some billionaire hotel.”
“He owns several.”
“Exactly.”
Luca almost smiled.
“I wasn’t suggesting one.”
Jasmine leaned forward.
“I have an aunt in Brooklyn.”
We spent the night there.
Or tried to.
At 12:04 a.m., my face appeared on cable news.
At 12:19, a journalist identified Ethan Caldwell.
At 12:31, Caldwell Global released a statement.
“Mr. Ethan Caldwell deeply regrets an unfortunate accident caused by a misunderstanding at a private dinner.”
I read the line three times.
Accident.
Misunderstanding.
I watched myself fall again.
It didn’t look like an accident.
At 1:12 a.m., a second statement appeared.
“Video circulating online lacks full context.”
At 1:40, online accounts began suggesting I had intentionally spilled water on Ethan.
At 2:05, someone posted an old picture from college showing me holding a beer at a party.
The caption said:
WAITRESS HAS HISTORY OF RECKLESS BEHAVIOR.
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“This is their strategy?”
Jasmine stared at her phone.
“They’re trying to make you look crazy.”
By sunrise, they were doing a decent job.
Anonymous sources claimed I had previously been disciplined at work.
False.
Another post claimed I had demanded a million dollars.
False.
A gossip website suggested Victor and I knew each other before the incident.
Completely false.
At 8:30 Saturday morning, Marcus called.
“Anna.”
He sounded terrified.
“Marcus?”
“I’m sorry.”
My chest tightened.
“For what?”
“The owners are panicking.”
“What does that mean?”
“They want you to stay home.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
Pause.
“I don’t think so.”
That meant yes.
I sat at my aunt’s kitchen table, staring at cold coffee.
“Marcus, what happened to the security footage?”
Silence.
“Marcus?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Victor told you to save it.”
“I know.”
“Did you?”
Another pause.
Then Marcus whispered, “Anna, listen to me.”
Something in his voice frightened me.
“The cameras recorded more than the push.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t explain on the phone.”
“Then explain in person.”
“I shouldn’t even be calling.”
“Marcus—”
There was noise in the background.
A door opening.
Someone speaking.
Marcus suddenly raised his voice.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
“Don’t trust anybody who offers you money.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Jasmine had heard everything.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
But someone else did.
At 9:03, Victor DeLuca called me.
I recognized the number from Luca’s card.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Anna.”
His voice sounded exactly as it had inside the restaurant.
Controlled.
Calm.
“Victor.”
“You spoke to Marcus.”
I sat straighter.
“How do you know?”
“He called me first.”
My skin went cold.
“What did he tell you?”
“Not enough.”
Victor paused.
“Someone entered the restaurant security office at 3:14 this morning.”
“What?”
“They removed the main recording server.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then the footage is gone?”
Another pause.
“No.”
I waited.
Victor continued.
“Marcus copied it before they arrived.”
I exhaled.
“Where is the copy?”
“He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s scared.”
“Of Ethan?”
Victor’s voice dropped.
“No.”
“Then who?”
There was another long silence.
“His father.”
Richard Caldwell.
My mouth went dry.
Victor continued.
“Anna, something happened at La Bernardine before Ethan shoved you.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But Marcus thinks Richard Caldwell is afraid of the recording.”
“Yes.”
I looked through the kitchen window at Brooklyn traffic moving below.
“What could possibly be on it?”
Victor answered quietly.
“That’s what we need to find out.”
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked on the apartment door.
Jasmine’s aunt went to answer it.
A courier stood outside holding a white envelope.
No return address.
My name written across the front.
ANNA MARTINEZ.
Inside was one sheet of paper.
And a number.
$2,500,000.
Below it were six words.
For confidentiality and complete public silence.
At the bottom was a signature.
Richard Caldwell.
And suddenly I understood what Marcus had meant.
They weren’t trying to pay me because Ethan had pushed me.
They were trying to pay me because they believed I had seen something.
May you like
The terrifying part was—
I had no idea what.
