Chapter 2 - The Silence in the Dining Room
The private VIP dining suite was filled with the heavy, pressurized silence that usually preceded a city-wide gang war.
Vincent Kane stood six-foot-three in a bespoke charcoal-grey wool suit, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the linen table. In his massive, scarred left hand, the crumpled notebook page with my purple crayon stars looked as fragile as a fallen leaf.
He folded the paper with surgical precision, sliding it into the breast pocket of his jacket, directly above his heart.
“Marcus,” Kane said in a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Yes, Don Vincent?” his chief enforcer answered, stepping forward from the shadows.
“Pick up the little girl,” Kane commanded softly. “Ensure not a single grain of dust touches her coat.”
Marcus, a six-foot-four veteran whose knuckles were mapped with old knife scars, knelt down on both knees. With astonishing gentleness, he scooped me into his massive arms, adjusting my untied pink sneaker.
“Hold on to my collar, little one,” Marcus whispered.
Kane adjusted his diamond-and-onyx cufflinks, turned toward the velvet curtain, and swept it aside with a single flick of his forearm.
The bustling main dining room of Sterling’s Bistro—packed with ninety wealthy patrons sipping vintage Chianti and enjoying roasted duck—fell instantly into a dead, suffocating freeze.
Conversations died in mid-sentence. Fork tines clattered against fine porcelain.
Vincent Kane strode across the polished hardwood floor, flanked by six armed security operators whose tailored coats were unbuttoned at the hip.
At the center circular bar, thirty-four-year-old Harrison Sterling stood holding a glass of scotch, chatting with a blonde socialite.
When Sterling saw Kane walking toward him—and saw me resting safely on Marcus’s shoulder—the glass in his hand slipped.
SMASH.
Scotch and crushed ice splattered across Sterling’s handmade Italian leather shoes.
“M... Mr. Kane!” Sterling stammered, his face draining of every single drop of color until he looked like wet drywall. “Is... is everything alright with the private tasting menu? If the truffle risotto was unsatisfactory, I will fire the sous-chef immediately!”
May you like
Kane stopped three paces from the bar, folding his hands behind his back.
“The risotto was fine, Harrison,” Kane spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the silent restaurant. “It’s your accounting that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.”
