Chapter 8 - A Table for Fourteen
Vincent walked down the grand staircase of the bistro, followed by Emily and Rory.
In the main dining hall, the thirteen other employees were still waiting patiently. When they saw Emily walk down the stairs accompanied by Chicago’s most dangerous man, they all stood up nervously.
Vincent stopped at the center of the dining room.
“Listen to me,” Vincent announced, his powerful voice filling the elegant space. “David Sterling will never set foot in this building again. As of five minutes ago, he is in federal custody facing murder, extortion, and fraud charges.”
Gasps and cheers echoed from the staff.
“Furthermore,” Vincent continued, holding up his hand for quiet, “every single dollar of back pay owed to each of you has been wired to your bank accounts, along with a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for your patience and loyalty.”
The dishwasher sank into a chair, covering his face as he began to cry tears of relief. The head bartender slammed his fist on the counter with a loud, joyous cheer!
“And finally,” Vincent added, turning to look at Emily, who stood beside him holding Rory’s hand, “this restaurant has a new owner. Ms. Emily Carter.”
The staff exploded into thunderous applause. The kitchen crew, the waitresses, and the busboys rushed forward, surrounding Emily in a massive group hug, cheering for the woman who had fought in the trenches alongside them every single night.
Emily looked up through her tears at Vincent, who stood slightly apart from the crowd, his arms crossed over his tailored chest, watching the celebration with a look of quiet satisfaction.
Rory wiggled away from the group of hugging waitresses and walked up to Vincent.
She reached out and gently tugged on the hem of his dark suit jacket.
Vincent dropped down onto one knee, bringing himself level with the four-year-old girl.
“Yes, little one?” Vincent asked gently.
Rory pulled a purple crayon from her tiny dress pocket and held it out to him.
“Thank you for helping my mom,” she said softly.
May you like
Vincent looked at the purple crayon, then looked into the little girl’s bright, innocent eyes. The man who ruled Chicago’s underground with an iron fist reached out with his calloused hand, carefully taking the plastic crayon, and tucked it into the front breast pocket of his three-thousand-dollar suit like a medal of honor.
“You’re very welcome, Rory,” Vincent murmured.
