Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The air inside Sterling’s Bistro didn't just grow quiet; it froze.
Vincent Kane did not move. For three full seconds, he sat completely motionless, his fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. But the temperature in the corner dropped so sharply that the ice cube in his glass seemed to stop melting.
When Vincent slowly rose from his chair, he towered over the table. He was not a loud man. He never yelled. He didn't need to. His authority was absolute, carved out of twenty years of dominating the Chicago underground through pure, unyielding calculation.
At that exact moment, David Sterling finally turned away from the bar, catching sight of the little girl in the red hoodie standing beside the city’s most feared syndicate boss.
Sterling’s smile vanished. The silver Porsche keys slipped from his fingers, hitting the marble tile with a sharp, echoing clatter.
“Mr... Mr. Kane,” Sterling stammered, hurrying across the dining room with a greasy, frantic smile pasted across his face, his hands wiping nervously down his expensive suit vest. “I didn't realize... Is there a problem with the table? Is the service—?”
Vincent didn't look at him. He didn't turn his head. He kept his slate-gray eyes fixed entirely on the lined piece of paper with the purple stars.
“David,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that made the restaurant manager flinch.
“Sir?”
“How much is five thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents to a man who drives a new German sports car?”
Sterling blinked, his face turning the color of curdled milk. “I... I don't know what you’re referring to, Mr. Kane. That’s just internal payroll adjustments—accounting issues with part-time staff—we always clear things up at the end of the—s”
Vincent reached out, picked up the paper with two fingers, and let it drift back down onto the white cloth like a death warrant.
“Seventy-seven days,” Vincent said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet dining room. “Eleven weeks of double shifts. While you parked a two-hundred-thousand-dollar toy on Michigan Avenue, a four-year-old child drew stars on her mother’s work log to mark the nights her stomach went to bed empty.”
“Mr. Kane, please—it’s just a misunderstanding—she’s a disgruntled employee—!”
“She is a mother,” Vincent interrupted, turning his head slowly to look Sterling dead in the eye. “And you are a thief who stole from the wrong family in the wrong city.”
Before Sterling could stammer another excuse, the kitchen doors swung open, and my mother stepped out into the dining room, carrying a tray of appetizers.
May you like
When she saw me standing beside Vincent Kane—and saw the white, terrified face of the owner staring down at a piece of paper on the table—she dropped the tray.
The ceramic plates shattered against the floor with an explosion of white porcelain and flying food.
