Chapter 1 - The Clatter of the KeysThe Porsche keys hit the Italian marble floor with a sharp, echoing clack.
David Sterling’s laughter died in his throat. His face, flushed from expensive wine and absolute impunity, drained of color in a fraction of a second. He wasn't looking at the keys. He was looking at the man standing opposite a little girl in a red hoodie.
Vincent Kane.
The dining room of Sterling’s Bistro—usually a vibrant playground for Chicago’s corrupt elite—suddenly felt like a tomb. Silverware stopped mid-air. Waiters froze against mahogany walls. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop by half.
"David," Vincent’s voice didn't boom. It didn't need to. It cut through the terrified silence like a scalpel.
Sterling stumbled backward, his hip catching the edge of the mahogany bar. A cocktail glass tipped over, dark red liquid spilling across the polished wood like fresh blood.
"Mr... Mr. Kane," Sterling stammered, his fingers clawing uselessly at his lapels. "I didn't... I didn't know she was—I swear, I didn't send her—"
Vincent didn't look at Sterling. Not yet. His dark, impenetrable eyes remained fixed on the small piece of crumpled notebook paper resting beside his crystal water glass. The paper with the purple stars.
"Five thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents," Vincent read aloud, his voice dangerously soft. He lifted his gaze to the trembling owner. "It seems an arithmetic error has occurred in your payroll department, David. Or perhaps... a moral one."
Sterling swallowed so hard his throat visibly jerked. "It’s a misunderstanding. Cash flow issues—the pandemic, supply chains, inflation—"
"My accountant has a saying," Vincent interrupted, stepping away from the table. The three bodyguards parted like smoke, their hands dropping from their jackets. "When a man cannot pay his debts, he is a thief. When a thief steals from a child's plate, he is an amateur. And I don't like amateurs in my city."
Clack.
May you like
Vincent’s leather shoe hit the marble. Then another. He began to walk across the dining room, his stride slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.
And right beside him, matching him step-for-step with tiny red-sneaker squeaks, walked Rory Carter.
