My mother worked seventy-seven days without being paid while her boss flaunted a new Porsche and begged her to wait “one more week.” So I slipped away at lunch, walked past seven armed men, and asked the most dangerous man in Chicago why nobody had made David Sterling pay her.

My mother tried to step forward.

“Mr. Kane, please,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don't want any trouble. If he just pays me half—if he just gives me enough for the rent this month—we’ll leave. We’ll take our things and go.”

Vincent turned his head to look at her. His grey eyes were unreadable, but his voice was firm.

“Mrs. Carter,” he said. “When a man eats at a restaurant, he pays for the food before he leaves. When a man hires a worker, he pays for her time before he buys a car. This isn't a negotiation. It’s simple arithmetic.”

He looked back at his watch.

“Three minutes.”

Sterling was dripping with sweat now. His silk tie was pulled loose at his collar, and his hands were digging frantically through his leather wallet. He pulled out three thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in bank bands and slammed them onto a stainless-steel prep table.

“There!” Sterling gasped. “There’s three thousand! That’s all I have on me! The rest is in the safe upstairs, but I don't have the combination—the manager has the combination—”

“Marcus,” Vincent called out.

Marcus reappeared through the kitchen doors carrying a heavy black steel cash box that looked like it had been ripped directly off the manager’s desk, along with four inches of wood framing still attached to the mounting brackets. Marcus set it down on the table next to the meat slicer with a heavy THUD.

“Key,” Vincent said flatly.

Sterling fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a small brass key, and dropped it onto the table.

Marcus unlocked the box. Inside were neat rows of fifties, twenties, and hundred-dollar bills from the lunch service, along with the weekend receipts.

Vincent didn't touch the money. He looked at me.

“Rory,” he said.

I looked up from behind my mother’s legs. “Yes, Mr. Kane?”

“Come here.”

My mother tried to hold my hand, but Vincent gave her a brief, reassuring nod that made her fingers loosen. I walked over to the stainless-steel table, my sneakers squeaking on the red tiles.

“You drew the stars,” Vincent said. “So you count the money.”

The kitchen went so quiet you could hear the pilot light humming beneath the stove.

I reached up over the edge of the tall stainless table. My fingers barely cleared the metal rim, so Marcus reached down, grabbed me under the arms, and lifted me up until I was sitting directly on the corner of the prep table next to the cash box.

“Thank you,” I told Marcus.

Marcus stared at me for two seconds, then his hard mouth twitched into something that almost looked like a smile before he turned back into a stone wall.

I picked up the first stack of hundred-dollar bills Sterling had thrown down. It felt thick and stiff, like brand-new paper from the craft store.

“One, two, three, four, five...” I counted out loud, laying the bills down one by one in front of Vincent.

When I got to fifty-four hundred dollars, I stopped.

There were thirty cents missing.

I looked into the black cash box. There were nickels and quarters lying loose in the bottom compartment. I picked up a quarter and a nickel and placed them neatly on top of the pile of hundreds.

“Fifty-four hundred and thirty dollars,” I said.

“And thirty cents,” Vincent added gently.

“And thirty cents,” I repeated.

Vincent looked at Sterling. Sterling was slumped against the bread rack, breathing heavily, his head down, refusing to look at any of us.

“Now,” Vincent said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the silver fountain pen. He laid it beside the pile of cash. “The interest.”

Sterling’s head snapped up. “What interest?! I paid her! I paid the whole amount!”

“You paid the principal, David,” Vincent said. His voice was colder now, dropping into a tone that made the line cooks step back another foot from the prep line. “For eleven weeks, you used Mrs. Carter’s money to finance your lifestyle. You took interest-free loans from a mother who couldn't buy her daughter dinner on Tuesdays.”

Vincent tapped the silver pen against the stainless steel.

“The interest rate for unauthorized loans in Harbor City is one hundred percent,” Vincent said. “Payable immediately.”

Sterling went pale. “That’s—that’s another five thousand dollars! I don't have it! I swear to God, I don't have it here!”

Vincent looked at Marcus.

“Take the Porsche,” Vincent said.

“No!” Sterling screamed, lunging forward. “No! Not the car!”

Marcus didn't even turn around. He reached behind him with one arm, grabbed Sterling by the lapels of his jacket, and shoved him back onto the floor. The keys to the Porsche were already in Marcus’s pocket.

Vincent reached down, picked up the entire pile of cash—the principal and the extra change—and walked over to my mother.