Chapter 2 - Midnight LedgerThe rain outside had turned into a steady, gray mist by the time Dominic pushed back into the dining room.
The two truckers had paid their tab and vanished into the night, leaving only a grease-stained quarter on the formica counter. The neon coffee sign buzzed with a low, rhythmic drone that sounded like a dying insect.
Curtis Pike stepped out of the manager's office at the back of the hall. He was wearing a shiny polyester bowling shirt with CURTIS stitched in gold cursive over the pocket. His face was flushed with the oily satisfaction of a man who thought he had successfully stolen from someone too weak to bite back.
"Everything alright out here, Mr. Rinaldi?" Pike asked, smoothing his slicked-back blonde hair with a hand covered in heavy silver rings. "That girl in the back... she gets hysterical. Too much stress. You know how these lower-end types are. Can't handle the pressure of a double shift."
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly back to his booth, picked up his un-touched coffee cup, and turned it in his fingers.
"You've been managing the Bluebird for twenty-two months, Curtis," Dominic said, his voice level and entirely devoid of warmth.
"Yes, sir. And profits are up six percent year-over-year—"
"You like numbers?" Dominic interrupted.
Pike chuckled nervously, shifting his weight from one scuffed loafer to the other. "Well, numbers don't lie, do they?"
"No," Dominic agreed. He set the ceramic mug down with a sharp clack that made Pike flinch. "They don't."
Dominic reached into his coat and pulled out a slim, leather-bound notebook. It wasn't the restaurant's ledger. It was a record of every shell company, kickback scheme, and skimming operation run beneath the Rinaldi umbrella across Greyhaven.
"According to my accountant's audit of your personal bank deposits over the last fourteen months," Dominic said, his gaze locked onto Pike's widening eyes, "you've deposited forty-two thousand dollars in cash increments under ten thousand dollars into a private account at First Greyhaven Mutual."
Pike’s face went from ruddy to the color of curdled milk. "I... that's—that's personal savings, Mr. Rinaldi. I flip cars on the side—"
"You flip cars," Dominic repeated. "Using the Bluebird’s delivery van for transport, and storing titles in the safe under the register?"
"Wait—Boss, let me explain—"
"The safe that Nora Bell cleans every single night," Dominic continued, his voice rising just enough to cut off Pike’s stuttering excuses. "The safe where you kept her eight thousand dollars in medical envelopes before you decided to pocket it to pay off your bookie on 4th Street."
Pike’s knees buckled slightly. He reached blindly behind him for the doorframe. "You're... you're firing me over a waitress? A fat, greasy little—"
The word didn't even finish forming in Pike's mouth.
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Dominic moved with the terrifying speed of a striking viper. He didn't draw a gun; a gun was too noisy for a Tuesday night in his mother's diner. Instead, he grabbed Pike by the gold-stitched collar of his bowling shirt, hauled him across the table, and slammed him against the front window with enough force to rattle the neon coffee cup until the glass cracked.
"Listen to me very carefully, Curtis," Dominic whispered, his face inches from the manager's terrified eyes. "You don't get to talk about her like that. And you certainly don't get to steal from people who have nothing left."
