Chapter 6 - THE NEW SIGN ON THE AVENUE
Three years later.
The rain in Chicago was falling the same way it had on that Tuesday in November, dragging grey lines down the high arching windows of the restaurant on the corner of 4th and Grand.
The sign above the double mahogany doors didn't say Sterling’s Bistro anymore.
It said Rory’s.
The brass letters were polished every morning at seven by Tomas, the old dishwasher who was now the head kitchen supervisor, earning twenty-four dollars an hour with full medical benefits and paid vacation weeks.
Inside, the dining room was warm, filled with the rich smell of roasted garlic, dry-aged ribeyes, and fresh apple tarts baking in the back ovens.
My mother stood near the host stand wearing a tailored navy suit, a digital tablet in her hand, reviewing the dinner reservations for the evening. Her hair was neatly styled, her hands were soft, and she didn't look at tomato cans anymore unless she was ordering forty cases at a time for the weekend rush.
I sat in the back corner booth—the one with the dark leather cushions near the fireplace.
I was seven and a half now. The half still mattered.
My homework was spread out on the linen tablecloth—a long sheet of long-division math problems. Resting beside my notebook was a heavy silver fountain pen with the initials V.K.O. engraved on the cap.
The front glass doors opened with a quiet chiming of the brass bell.
The three men in dark wool coats stepped inside first, their eyes sweeping the dining room with practiced, silent routine. They didn't look at the patrons. They didn't look at the bar.
They looked at the back corner booth.
Vincent Kane walked in behind them.
He looked the same—charcoal three-piece suit, silver chain at his waist, grey hair neatly trimmed at his temples. But when his eyes met mine across the warm dining room, the hard edge around his jaw softened just a little bit.
He walked past the host stand, giving my mother a short, warm nod as she smiled and pointed toward my table.
“Mr. Kane,” I said as he reached the booth.
“Rory,” Vincent replied, sliding into the seat across from me. He set his dark topcoat aside on the leather cushion. “How is the arithmetic today?”
“Division is harder than addition,” I told him, showing him my page. “You have to figure out how many times something fits into something else before you can subtract it.”
Vincent looked down at my paper, his eyes lingering on the silver fountain pen resting next to my blue notebook.
“A useful skill,” Vincent said quietly. “Most people in this city never learn how to divide things fairly.”
A waiter arrived immediately, setting down a cup of black coffee for Vincent and a tall glass of chocolate milk for me, complete with two cherries on a little plastic sword.
Vincent picked up his cup, took a slow sip, and looked out the window at the Chicago rain washing down the avenue.
Across the street, where the old valet stand used to be, a small red sedan was parked legally at the curb. It belonged to my mother—paid for in cash, with brand-new tires and a heater that worked in two minutes flat.
“Is David Sterling ever coming back?” I asked softly.
Vincent set his cup down with a quiet click against the saucer.
“David moved to Arizona, Rory,” Vincent said. “He works at a car wash near Scottsdale. I hear he’s very careful when he counts the change.”
I smiled and picked up my silver pen, turning to the next long-division problem on my page.
Vincent leaned back against the dark leather booth, resting his hands on the table, watching the quiet warmth of the restaurant hum around us.
May you like
There were no armed men standing over our table. There were no tears on the linen tablecloth. There were no purple stars on the menu.
Just a four-year-old girl who had walked past seven guards, a mother who never had to skip dinner again, and the most dangerous man in Chicago, sitting quietly in the back corner, enjoying his coffee in peace.
