Chapter 2 - The Audit of David Sterling
The manager's office at Sterling’s Bistro smelled of cheap lemon polish and old grease trap cleaner. It was a windowless box tucked behind the walk-in freezer, barely large enough for a gray metal desk, a filing cabinet with a jammed drawer, and a plastic chair missing one rubber foot cap.
Mom was sitting at the desk, her head in her hands, her fingers tangled in her chestnut hair.
When the door creaked open, she jerked upward, her eyes wide with panic, expecting Sterling.
Instead, it was me, sliding back through the door with my red hoodie zipped to my chin, holding the white bakery box Vincent’s man had handed me on my way back through the kitchen.
"Rory!" Mom gasped, lunging forward from the chair and pulling me into her chest so hard my ribs ached. Her breath smelled of black coffee and panic. "Where were you? I told you to stay in the corner! Do you know what Mr. Sterling would do if he caught you out there? He threatened to dock my pay just for bringing you today—"
"Mom," I said, wriggling out of her grip and placing the white box on the desk. "I went for a walk."
"A walk? Rory, this isn't a park—"
"I met Mr. Kane."
The air left the room. Mom froze, her hands hovering in mid-air above my shoulders. Her face drained of what little color the seventy-seven days of exhaustion had left behind.
"Who?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
"Vincent Kane. In the back booth."
Mom’s eyes dropped to my hands. She saw the folded piece of paper—the work log I had taken from her purse. It was back in my fingers, but it looked different now. At the bottom, beneath her neat cursive total of $5,430.30, there was a bold, sweeping signature scrawled in black ink, along with a small, embossed wax seal stamped into the corner of the cheap notebook paper.
"Rory," Mom breathed, her voice trembling so violently she could barely form the syllables. "What did you do?"
Before I could answer, the heavy steel door of the office rattled.
It didn't knock. It vibrated on its hinges.
Mom scrambled up, instinctively stepping in front of me as the door swung open.
David Sterling stood in the doorway. He looked frantic, his silk tie crooked, sweat beading along his hairline despite the powerful air conditioning in the building. Behind him stood two of Vincent’s bodyguards—the scarred man and another tall, broad-shouldered giant in a black trench coat. They didn't touch Sterling, but they didn't have to; their mere presence forced him forward like a prisoner marched to the gallows.
"Clara," Sterling stammered, his voice pitching an octave higher than usual. "Clara, listen, I didn't know—that is, nobody told me—"
"Mr. Sterling," Mom said, her voice shaking but her spine rigid. "I was just gathering my things. We're leaving."
"No, no, please, sit down," Sterling blurted out, wiping his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. He tried to force a smile, but his lips twitched nervously. "There’s been a misunderstanding. Payroll... payroll had a clerical glitch. It happens with new software. Your check is being processed right now. In fact..."
Sterling fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a checkbook with trembling fingers. He grabbed a gold pen from the desk, uncapping it so fast he sprayed black ink across his own cuff.
"Five thousand four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents," Sterling muttered, his pen scratching furiously against the paper. "Plus... plus a bonus! Let's make it ten thousand. For your trouble. A loyal employee like you—"
He thrust the check toward her.
Mom didn't look at the check. She looked past Sterling, out into the dim hallway where a tall silhouette stood half-shadowed by the flickering fluorescent light.
Vincent Kane didn't enter the office. He didn't need to. He stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, watching the scene with the cold detachment of a judge reading a death warrant.
"She doesn't want your bonus, Sterling," Vincent said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the tiny room completely.
Sterling swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "Mr. Kane... please. This is a private matter between me and my staff. Business is business—"
"Business," Vincent repeated, tasting the word like something foul. "Seventy-seven days without pay while you drive a German sports car and your cook’s six-year-old daughter draws stars on a log sheet because she hasn't had dinner. That’s not business, David. That’s theft."
"I can pay! I'm paying right now!" Sterling yelled, panic finally breaking through his slick veneer. He slammed the check onto the metal desk, the paper sliding against the scratches. "Look! It's signed! It's drawn on my primary account!"
Mom looked down at the check, then up at Vincent, and finally at Sterling. Slowly, deliberately, she picked up the check, folded it in half once, and dropped it into the metal wastebasket beside the desk.
Sterling stared at her in horror. "Are you insane? That’s ten grand!"
"My name is Clara Carter," Mom said, her voice clear and ringing with a sudden, terrifying strength. "I worked seventy-seven days. I earned every single penny of the five thousand four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents. Not a penny more from you, Mr. Sterling. And as of right now, my kitchen is closed permanently."
She reached down, took my hand, and lifted the white bakery box from the desk.
"Come on, Rory," she whispered.
We walked past David Sterling, who stood frozen against the filing cabinet, sweating through his custom shirt. We walked past the guards, who parted like the Red Sea.
And as we passed Vincent Kane in the doorway, the powerful, dangerous man of the Chicago underworld looked down at me, nodded once, and tipped the brim of his dark coat.
"Happy birthday, Rory," Vincent said quietly.
May you like
"I'm four and a half," I corrected.
A slow, genuine smile finally touched his lips. "Right. Four and a half."
