Chapter 2 - THE KEYS TO THE PORSCHEDavid Sterling’s face drained of color so fast he looked like a ghost caught in a headlight. The swagger that usually defined him—the arrogant tilt of his chin, the way he tossed his expensive car keys like a circus performer—vanished into thin air.
He took three stumbling steps forward, his Italian leather shoes clicking frantically against the hardwood floor.
“Mr. Kane,” David stammered, his voice cracking on the second syllable. “I—I didn’t know the girl belonged to... I mean, I didn’t realize this was a matter of any importance to you personally—”
Vincent Kane didn't raise his voice. When you are the apex predator of Chicago’s underworld, you don't need to shout. Silence is a much more effective weapon.
“You didn’t realize human beings require food to survive, David?” Vincent asked softly, stepping away from the table. The seven armed guards parted like the Red Sea, keeping their hands loose and ready near their holsters. “Or did you simply think that because Ms. Carter is quiet, she has no voice?”
“It’s a cash flow issue!” David blurted out, sweating profusely now. He glanced desperately around the packed restaurant, hoping for a lifeline from the terrified diners who had all frozen in their seats, terrified to even rattle their silverware. “The restaurant industry is tough! Margins are thin! People want luxury dining, but they don't want to pay premium prices—”
“Yet you managed to finance a 2026 Porsche 911 GT3 RS two weeks ago,” Vincent interrupted smoothly. He reached down, picked up the purple-starred work log with two fingers, and flipped through the pages. Each page was a meticulous record written in my mother's neat, tired handwriting. “Cash flow seems adequate for German engineering. But distinctly lacking when it comes to a single mother working seventy-seven consecutive days.”
Vincent turned his cold, piercing gaze toward the bar.
“Marcus,” Vincent said without looking back.
A massive man with a jagged scar across his left cheek stepped forward. “Boss?”
“Take the keys to the Porsche.”
David gasped, lunging forward a few inches before freezing under the collective glare of seven armed men. “You can’t do that! That’s personal property! That’s financing through Chicago First National—”
“It was your property,” Vincent corrected, handing the heavy silver key fob to Marcus. “As of three seconds ago, it is collateral against a debt. A very high-interest debt. Starting with five thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents. Plus a compounding nuisance fee for wasting my afternoon.”
Vincent knelt down so he was eye-level with me. The harsh restaurant lights caught the silver threads in his tailored suit, but his eyes were surprisingly gentle—the kind of look only a man who had seen too much war and too many betrayals could possess.
“Rory,” Vincent said quietly. “Go back to your mother. Tell her the ledger has been accepted for audit. And tell her that starting tomorrow, her commute will be much easier.”
May you like
I clutched my red hoodie, nodded solemnly, and ran back toward the office where my mother was still frantically searching through the supply closet, unaware that her four-year-old daughter had just hijacked the most dangerous syndicate in the Midwest to settle a labor dispute.
Little did we know, Vincent Kane’s intervention was only the opening salvo in a war that would expose a multi-million-dollar money laundering ring hiding right beneath the kitchen floorboards of Sterling’s Bistro.
