Chapter 2 - The Drop of the Keys
The silver Porsche keys hit the imported Italian tile floor of Sterling’s Bistro with a sharp, metallic clatter that cut through the midday jazz music like a gunshot.
David Sterling stood frozen beside the mahogany bar, his mouth slightly open, his face draining of color until he looked like a corpse under the recessed track lighting. His eyes weren't fixed on the bartender, nor on the expensive bottles of vintage scotch lined up behind glass. They were locked entirely on the back corner booth—specifically on the small red hoodie sitting across from Vincent Kane.
For months, David had treated his staff like disposable inventory. He believed he was untouchable. He was a pillar of the North Side business association, a man who golfed with city councilmen and donated heavily to mayoral campaigns. He thought a starving single mother and her four-year-old daughter were invisible.
He didn't realize that in a city like Chicago, invisible people sometimes carried very heavy stones.
Vincent Kane did not raise his voice. He didn't slam his fist on the table. He simply picked up his crystal glass of sparkling water, took a slow sip, and set it down with a soft click.
“Pick them up, David,” Vincent said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, yet it carried across the entire dining room, freezing waiters mid-step and forcing diners to lower their forks.
David swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. He took two steps forward from the bar, his shiny leather shoes clicking awkwardly against the floor.
“Mr... Mr. Kane,” David stammered, wiping a sudden sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I didn't... I had no idea the child was yours—or that she had access to—that is, we’ve been having a temporary cash flow issue—”
“You’ve been having a cash flow issue,” Vincent interrupted smoothly, leaning back against the leather booth, “while driving a two-hundred-thousand-dollar German sports car and serving dry-aged wagyu beef to people who tip in compliments.”
Vincent slid the folded piece of paper—the work log with the purple stars drawn by a four-year-old hand—to the center of the table. He tapped a manicured fingernail against the bottom line.
11 weeks unpaid. Total owed: $5,430.30.
“She walked past seven of my men,” Vincent continued, his gaze narrowing into something cold and razor-sharp. “Do you know why she got past them, David?”
David shook his head frantically.
“Because my men protect people who work for a living,” Vincent said softly. “They don’t protect thieves who steal food out of a child’s mouth.”
Across the table, I watched quietly. I didn't fully understand what a "cash flow issue" was, but I knew the man who usually looked like a king of the restaurant was now shaking like a wet kitten.
Vincent looked down at me, his expression softening just a fraction—enough to show there was a human being beneath the tailored suit and the terrifying reputation.
“Rory,” Vincent said gently. “Is this the exact amount your mother is owed?”
“Every penny,” I said, nodding seriously. “And she worked extra on Tuesdays because the dishwasher quit.”
“Noted,” Vincent said. He raised his hand slightly.
May you like
Immediately, two of the men who had jumped up earlier stepped forward. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar over his left eyebrow named Marcus, leaned down.
“Get the ledger from his office,” Vincent instructed quietly. “And bring me his accountant on speakerphone. We’re going to do a little bookkeeping lesson before lunch.”
