Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Raid
The air in the restaurant had changed. It no longer smelled like simmering chicken and clean floor soap; it smelled of panic.
“This is extortion,” Vance sputtered, clutching the counter edge. “I built this lunchtime trade! My uncle owes me!”
“Your uncle wept in front of an ombudsman two months ago when he discovered you had removed his name from the health insurance policy,” Nolan said, reading directly from the legal dossier. “We bought his medical debts as well, Richard. He’s already been moved to Northwestern Memorial’s private rehabilitation wing as of forty minutes ago. He signed the dissolution paperwork with his left hand. He sends his regards.”
The line cook, an elderly Hispanic man named Mateo, stepped out from the kitchen, holding a ladle. He had worked at Harper’s Table for twenty-two years. He looked at Vance, then at Ethan, his weathered eyes wide with comprehension.
“Mateo,” Ethan said, turning his head toward the kitchen doorway.
The cook froze. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you owed back wages?”
Mateo hesitated, glancing nervously at Vance. Vance shot him a murderous look.
“Answer the gentleman, Mateo,” Ethan commanded gently. “Mr. Vance no longer has the authority to speak, sign, or breathe heavily in this kitchen.”
Mateo squared his shoulders. “Three weeks, sir. He told us the card processor was holding our tips.”
“The card processor was not holding your tips,” Ethan said. He reached into his coat and removed a thick, bound checkbook. He unscrewed a sterling silver fountain pen. “How much?”
“Twenty-one hundred for me. Fourteen hundred for Maria in the washroom. And Marissa... he took her tips twice last week because he claimed she broke two soup bowls.”
Ethan wrote swiftly. The sound of the nib scratching against paper was crisp, deliberate. He tore off the checks and handed them to Mateo.
“These are drafts from Northern Trust. They will clear instantly. Maria’s check is included. Add twenty percent bonus for emotional duress.”
Mateo stared at the numbers, his jaw slack. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. “Sir... who are you?”
“My name is Ethan Calloway. And this restaurant is closing for forty-eight hours for complete structural and ethical renovation.” Ethan turned back to Vance. “You have five minutes to empty your personal effects from that office. If you touch so much as a receipt from the ledger, my security detail outside will ensure you spend the evening in the First District lockup for fraud.”
Two men in charcoal suits, broad-shouldered and taciturn, appeared at the front door as if on cue. They pushed the glass open, their presence filling the entryway.
May you like
Vance looked at the security guards. He looked at Ethan’s cold, unblinking gray eyes. The bluster withered out of him like air from a punctured balloon. Without another word, he stumbled back toward the office, his expensive leather loafers squeaking pathetically against the linoleum.
***
