The crystal glass in Vincent Kane’s hand didn't shatter—he didn't squeeze it that hard—but the ice inside shifted with a sound like breaking bones.

The front facade had been completely repainted in deep emerald green and brushed gold. Inside, the harsh fluorescent lights had been replaced with warm, amber chandeliers that cast a romantic, sophisticated glow over the restored mahogany tables.

In the kitchen, Mom was in her element. Dressed in a pristine white chef's coat with her hair tied back in a professional knot, she moved like a general directing an elite battalion. The new staff—handpicked by Vincent’s trusted associates from the best kitchens in the Midwest—worked in absolute synchronization.

I wore a brand-new red velvet dress that matched my old hoodie, sitting in a velvet booth near the kitchen pass-through where I could watch the entire dining room.

The tables were packed with city officials, elite real estate developers, and high-profile journalists. And sitting at the corner table—the exact table where I had first handed Vincent the work log—was Vincent Kane himself, flanked by Marcus and two other guards, sipping a glass of aged Barolo.

Everything was going perfectly. Until the glass shattered.

It didn't happen in the dining room. It happened at the alleyway service entrance in the back.

Marcus’s radio crackled sharply on his belt. “Boss. We got movement at the rear loading dock. Perimeter sensor tripped.”

Vincent didn't even flinch. He slowly set down his wine glass, his dark eyes locking onto the kitchen swinging doors.

A second later, the heavy metal door at the back of the kitchen banged open with a deafening crash.

A man stepped into the immaculate kitchen, panting heavily, his face bruised and his clothes stained with grease and cheap liquor. It was David Sterling. But he didn't look like the arrogant, Porsche-driving playboy from a week ago. He looked like a cornered, desperate animal.

And in his right hand, he was holding a heavy, black snub-nosed revolver.

The entire kitchen staff froze. A line cook dropped a copper pan with a resounding clang.

"Where is she?!" David screamed, his voice unhinged, spittle flying from his lips as he waved the gun erratically across the room. "Where’s that thieving little brat and her gold-digging mother?! You ruined me! You took everything! My club, my car, my father's name!"

Mom stepped out from behind the prep station, her face pale but her voice remarkably steady. "David. Put the gun down. You’re only making it worse for yourself."

"Shut up!" David shrieked, raising the barrel directly toward Mom's chest. "If I'm going down, I'm taking the whole damn circus with me!"

He took a frantic step forward, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Mom didn't scream. She closed her eyes for a split second, bracing herself.