Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Morning Visitor
The morning sun cast a pale, weak light through the dusty venetian blinds of the diner when I unlocked the front door at 6:00 a.m. Thursday shifts were notoriously quiet, filled only with the steady hum of regulars—old Mr. Henderson reading the morning sports section over black coffee, and Officer Miller grabbing a quick jelly donut before his morning patrol.
I tied my apron around my waist, wiped down the laminate tables, and brewed the first fresh pot of Colombian roast.
By 7:30 a.m., the front bell chimed softly.
I turned around, expecting Mr. Henderson back for his second refill.
Instead, the breath caught in my throat.
Two men in charcoal suits stepped through the doorway, moving with silent, synchronized precision. They didn't look like regular diners. Their shoulders were broad, their posture rigidly disciplined, and their eyes scanned every corner of the room with professional tactical awareness.
Behind them walked Victor Russo.
Officer Miller, sitting in the corner booth with his half-eaten donut, froze mid-bite. He recognized Victor instantly; every cop in the district knew who Victor answered to. Miller quietly slid a twenty-dollar bill onto the table, stood up without finishing his coffee, and walked out the side exit without making eye contact.
Victor adjusted his silver-threaded lapel, walking toward the center counter with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped two feet away from me, his expression unreadable, though a faint twitch of amusement danced in his gray eyes.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, kid,” Victor said quietly, resting his knuckles on the counter.
My hands tightened around the coffee pot. I kept my voice level. “If you’re here about the coffee last night, it’s fresh. If you’re here to throw cups, I suggest you try the diner three blocks down.”
Victor let out a short, sharp bark of laughter.
“You don't scare easy, do you?” Victor shook his head. “Alessandro wants to see you.”
The words hung in the air like a physical weight. The diner suddenly felt smaller, the walls closing in around me.
“Tell Mr. Romano that I’m on the clock,” I replied, forcing my chin up. “If he wants breakfast, he can sit at a table like everyone else. If he wants trouble, he can take it somewhere else.”
Victor’s smile faded instantly. His eyes turned ice-cold. “Listen to me, sweetheart. Nobody tells the boss twice. You’re coming with us right now. Voluntarily or in the back of a town car. Your choice.”
Before I could formulate a desperate escape plan, the kitchen doors swung open, and Rosa stepped out holding a heavy metal skillet like a baseball bat.
“Step away from her, slick,” Rosa growled, her dark eyes flashing with absolute fury. “You want to touch her, you go through me first!”
Victor glanced at Rosa, then back at me, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
“Relax, grandma. We’re not here to hurt her,” Victor sighed, rolling his eyes. “The boss doesn't want a bloodbath over a ceramic coffee cup. He made an offer. And trust me, when Alessandro Romano makes an offer, you don't say no.”
I looked from Victor to Rosa, whose knuckles were white around the skillet handle. My mind raced. If I refused, they would drag me out, create a violent scene, and probably get Rosa or myself hurt. If I went willingly, at least I could control where we were going.
Furthermore, I thought of my mother’s oxygen bills, the unpaid electric notices, and the impossible math of my bank account.
Power brought leverage. And leverage brought money.
I untied my apron slowly, folding it neatly and placing it on the counter next to the cash register.
“Give me two minutes to make sure my manager knows I’m stepping out,” I said coldly.
May you like
Victor nodded once. “Make it one.”
Five minutes later, I was sitting in the leather-lined backseat of a black bulletproof Mercedes-Benz, flanked by Victor Russo and a silent, broad-shouldered driver whose neck looked as thick as a fire hydrant. The car pulled away from Rosie’s Diner, merging smoothly into the chaotic morning traffic of downtown Chicago, heading straight toward the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Romano Syndicate headquarters on Michigan Avenue.
