Chapter 2 - THE COST OF A SHIFT
The kitchen smelled like garlic, burnt butter, and the wet bleach they used to scrub the stainless-steel prep tables at two in the morning.
When the kitchen doors swung open, three line cooks instantly stopped chopping onions. The dishwasher, an old man named Tomas who always gave me orange slices when Mom wasn't looking, dropped a stack of plastic trays into the sink with a loud splash.
Nobody spoke. Everyone knew the shoes.
Vincent Kane’s leather soles made a distinct, slow rhythm on the damp red tile floor.
At the far end of the kitchen, past the walk-in freezer, the dry-storage door was propped open with a ten-pound can of olive oil.
My mother was inside.
She was kneeling on the concrete floor in her black work pants and the faded white shirt she washed by hand in our bathroom sink every night. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, and she had a yellow legal pad resting on her knee. She was squinting at the bottom shelf, counting the red cans of crushed Italian tomatoes.
“Ninety-four... ninety-five...” she whispered to herself, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Oh God, please let there be ninety-six...”
“Mom?” I said.
My mother spun around so fast her knee slammed into the bottom shelf, rattling the tin cans.
“Rory!” Her eyes went wide with instant, terrifying fear. “I told you to stay in the—”
She stopped.
Her eyes moved up from my red hoodie to the tall man standing in the doorway of the storage room.
She knew who he was. Everyone who worked in the Harbor District knew who Vincent Kane was. His face wasn't in the newspapers—Vincent was too smart for newspapers—but his face was on the wall of every union hall and private club from Michigan Avenue to the docks.
“Mr. Kane,” my mother breathed, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. She scrambled to her feet, dropping her yellow pad. She instinctively stepped between me and him, putting her hand behind her back to push me toward the corner. “I’m sorry. She’s four. She didn't mean to wander out there. I was just—I was counting the shipment like Mr. Sterling asked—”
“Mrs. Carter,” Vincent said.
He took off his dark wool topcoat and laid it carefully over a metal shelving unit filled with paper towels. Underneath, his suit was immaculate—charcoal wool, three-piece, with a thin silver chain running from his vest pocket to his waist.
“Your daughter didn't wander,” Vincent said. “She came on an errand.”
My mother looked down at me, her eyes filled with confusion and panic. “Rory... what did you do?”
Vincent reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the piece of white notebook paper. He unfolded it slowly, smoothing the creases against his thigh before holding it out to her.
My mother looked at the paper. Then she looked at the purple stars.
Her hand went to her mouth.
“Rory...” she sobbed softly, her voice breaking right there in front of the line cooks and the dishwasher. “Oh, baby, no...”
“You write very clearly, Mrs. Carter,” Vincent said. He wasn't looking at her tears. He was looking at the ledger. “Fifty-four hundred and thirty dollars. Plus thirty cents.”
“It’s—it’s correct,” she stammered, trying desperately to wipe her cheeks before the tears could fall on her shirt. “I kept track of every shift. David said—Mr. Sterling said the payroll system was updating. He said the merchant processor held the funds because of an audit. He said if I complained to the labor board, he’d make sure I never got hired at any kitchen in the city.”
Vincent nodded once. “David lies.”
Behind us, the heavy kitchen door swung open again. David Sterling was standing there, flanked by Marcus and two other men in dark coats. Sterling’s face was red now, blotchy with sweat and panic.
“Mr. Kane, listen to me!” Sterling yelled from the line. “She’s an at-will employee! She signed an agreement! The bistro’s cash flow has been tight because of the landlord’s assessment—”
Vincent turned around slowly.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't raise his voice.
“Marcus,” Vincent said.
“Sir?”
“Bring the register from the front desk.”
“It’s bolted down, boss.”
“Bring the desk.”
Marcus turned around and walked out of the kitchen.
Sterling took a step back, his eyes darting toward the back exit that led to the alley where his new Porsche was parked. But the two men in wool coats were already standing in front of the door, their arms folded, their faces completely blank.
“You have five minutes, David,” Vincent said, pulling out a silver pocket watch and clicking it open. “To find five thousand four hundred and thirty dollars. In cash. Or we start deducting it from the assets in the alley.”
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“The car?” Sterling squeaked. “You can’t take my car! That’s a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar vehicle! I just picked it up from the dealership on Tuesday!”
“Then you have a hundred and forty thousand dollars worth of bad judgment sitting in my driveway,” Vincent said smoothly. “Four minutes and forty seconds.”
