Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Room
The dining room of Sterling’s Bistro was a place where ordinary people whispered.
High vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers that looked like frozen waterfalls, and tables covered in thick white linen cloths made the room feel like a museum where people happened to eat expensive meat.
I kept my head down, keeping close to the heavy velvet curtains along the eastern wall.
The back corner booth—shadowed, private, and elevated by a single polished oak step—belonged to Vincent Kane.
Even children on the West Side knew that name. You heard it whispered in corner stores, on the city buses, and across chain-link school fences. Men lowered their voices when he walked into a room. Business owners paid him protection money before they paid their taxes, their mortgages, or their employees. The federal prosecutors in Chicago called him a dangerous organized crime boss, a syndicate kingpin who controlled the shipping docks, the private clubs, and the municipal boards.
The police called him untouchable. But nobody in the city ever called him a liar. If Vincent Kane gave his word, mountains moved; if he broke it, men disappeared.
Three bodyguards in tailored charcoal suits stood near his table. Two more sat at an adjacent table pretending to share a seafood platter, though their eyes never stopped scanning the room.
I didn't hesitate. I walked straight across the plush carpet, my small red sneakers making no sound against the thick wool.
“Hey, kid,” a sharp voice murmured.
A large man with a flat nose and a thick neck stepped directly into my path, blocking the oak step. His hand drifted casually toward his jacket. “Backstage is closed. Go find your parents.”
I didn't look at him. I looked past his broad shoulder, straight at the man sitting alone at the corner table.
Vincent Kane was nursing a glass of amber whiskey. He was forty-five, with dark, slicked-back hair touched with silver at the temples, sharp aristocratic cheekbones, and eyes the color of a winter storm over Lake Michigan. He wasn't wearing a tie; the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were unbuttoned, revealing the clean, hard line of his throat.
He raised one finger.
The big bodyguard froze mid-step.
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look angry. He simply lifted his gaze from his whiskey glass and fixed those chilling, gray eyes on me.
“Are you talking to me?” Vincent asked, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that vibrated right through the floorboards.
“Yes,” I said, planting my feet firmly on the carpet.
“You sure?”
I glanced up at the hard-faced men surrounding him, then back at Vincent’s unblinking stare.
“You’re the only person in this whole room that nobody laughs around,” I said clearly. “My mom says that means you’re the real boss.”
The restaurant seemed to hold its collective breath. Across the room, the jazz music played softly on, sounding suddenly miles away.
Not a single person smiled.
Vincent tilted his head, a microscopic flicker of amusement touching the corner of his mouth before disappearing beneath a mask of absolute granite.
“What’s your name?”
“Rory Carter.”
“How old are you?”
“Four and a half.”
“And does your mother know you’re standing in my private dining section, Miss Carter?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “She thinks I’m in the bathroom.”
A man sitting to Vincent’s left let out a sharp, surprised snort of laughter.
Vincent flicked his eyes sideways, and the laughter died instantly.
“You passed seven professional security guards to reach my table,” Vincent noted, swirling the ice in his glass.
“Six,” one of the bodyguards muttered defensively.
I shook my head, my ponytail swishing back and forth. “Seven. One was eating a breadstick by the kitchen door and wasn’t looking at the hallway.”
Vincent set his crystal glass down with a soft clink. The silence in the corner grew heavy, thick with the kind of tension that made adults sweat.
“Tell me why you came, Rory.”
I reached into my red hoodie, pulled out the folded, slightly crinkled sheet of lined paper, and smoothed it flat across the white linen tablecloth right beside his whiskey glass.
Every shift Mom had worked was listed there. Every double. Every late closing.
At the bottom, in bold ink, her handwriting spelled out the truth: 11 weeks unpaid. Total owed: $5,430.30.
Vincent studied the page. His eyes traced the columns of dates, hours, and wages. Then they stopped on the little purple stars I had drawn beside the hardest weeks.
“She wrote the hours,” I said, my voice dropping to a small, tight whisper. “I drew the stars.”
Across the dining room, near the mahogany bar, David Sterling threw his head back and laughed loudly, spinning a heavy set of silver keys around his index finger—keys to his brand-new, cherry-red Porsche parked right outside on Michigan Avenue.
Vincent followed my gaze across the room, watching Sterling raise a glass of champagne to a city councilman.
Then, Vincent looked back down at the paper.
“What do the stars mean, Rory?” he asked quietly.
May you like
I swallowed hard, feeling the hot prickle of tears behind my eyelids, and pointed my small finger at the very first star at the top of the page.
“They’re the nights we didn't eat dinner.”
