A rich restaurant owner mocked my mother after forcing her to work seventy-seven days without a paycheck, certain nobody would ever dare question him. Moments later, a wrinkled piece of paper carried into the private dining room of Chicago's most feared mafia boss changed everything, and the laughter inside the restaurant vanished before anyone even knew who I was.

The thugs dropped the gasoline cans instantly, raising their hands in absolute terror.

Julian Sterling collapsed onto his knees in the wet gravel of the alley, his pants soaking through, weeping hysterically as Dominic stepped forward and dragged him up by his collar.

Ten minutes later, the back office of Elena’s Bistro—the very office where Sterling used to count his money—was completely locked down.

The front dining room remained blissfully unaware. Jazz music continued to play, guests laughed over dessert, and my mother was busy thanking the mayor’s chief of staff for visiting.

Inside the back office, Sterling was thrown into a wooden chair. His face was bruised, his clothes filthy, and his body shaking violently.

The door opened softly, and Mr. Kane walked in, holding a cup of espresso. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, like a judge dealing with a pest that refused to learn its lesson.

"Julian," Mr. Kane said, taking a quiet sip of his coffee. "I gave you a dollar. I gave you your life. I let you walk away from this city with your skin intact."

"Mr. Kane... please!" Sterling sobbed, blood mixing with tears on his cheek. "It was Moretti! Moretti forced me to do it! He said he would kill me if I didn't show him the back doors!"

Mr. Kane set his coffee cup down on the desk with a soft clink.

"You brought gasoline to a building where a four-year-old child was eating dinner," Mr. Kane whispered.

The temperature in the small office seemed to plummet below freezing.

"Do you know what happens to men who threaten children on my turf, Julian?" Mr. Kane asked, stepping closer. "They don't go to prison. Prisons are for human beings who made mistakes. You are not a human being. You are a disease."

Dominic stepped forward, pulling a heavy leather dossier from his coat. "Boss, we just intercepted Sterling's private bank accounts. We found the offshore wire transfers. He wasn't just stealing wages from Elena. He’s been skimming from the pension funds of every dishwasher, cook, and cleaning lady in this district for five years. Over two million dollars."

Mr. Kane looked down at Sterling with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"Every dollar," Mr. Kane ordered flatly. "Seize every offshore account. Transfer the funds into a community trust fund managed by Elena Carter. Every worker he cheated will be paid back with three hundred percent interest."

"You... you can't strip me of everything!" Sterling shrieked. "I’ll be ruined! I’ll be homeless!"

"You won't be homeless, Julian," Mr. Kane said, turning toward the door. "Victor has a lovely private farm in northern Michigan where you will be spending the next twenty years picking apples twelve hours a day. No paycheck. No sports cars. Just seventy-seven days of hard labor, over and over again, until your debt to this city is paid."