Chapter 2 - The Fall of the House of Sterling
Mr. Sterling’s laughter stopped so abruptly it sounded like someone had cut a tape with scissors. His face, usually flushed from expensive scotch and cheap confidence, went the color of skim milk. He dropped his shiny car keys onto the mahogany bar counter with a sharp clack.
“Rory?” Mr. Sterling muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he hurried across the polished tile floor. He wiped his palms on his trousers, flashing a fake, greasy smile that didn't reach his small, darting eyes. “What—what are you doing back here, sweetie? You shouldn't be wandering around. The kitchen is dangerous for little girls.”
He reached out a heavy hand to grab my shoulder, his fingers heavy with gold rings.
He didn't get within three feet of me.
A man with a scar across his cheek—the one who had stood up so fast when I first appeared—stepped into Mr. Sterling’s path. He didn't draw a weapon, but the cold, dead look in his eyes made Mr. Sterling freeze mid-step.
“Keep your hands to yourself, restaurant owner,” the scarred man said. His voice was like grinding stones.
“Now wait just a minute,” Mr. Sterling stammered, sweating profusely now as he looked past my guard and straight at the head of the table. “Mr. Kane… I am so sorry. I didn't know the kid wandered in here. She’s just the daughter of one of my waitresses. A bit of a nuisance, really. I’ll have her out of your hair in—”
“Shut up, Sterling,” Vincent Kane said.
It wasn't a shout. It was barely above a conversational tone, yet it carried the weight of an avalanche.
Mr. Sterling snapped his mouth shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently.
Vincent didn't look at the restaurant owner. Instead, he looked down at the piece of paper I had placed on the table. His long, elegant fingers traced the bottom line—77 days unpaid. Total owed: $5,430.30—and the little purple stars I had carefully colored in with my favorite crayon.
“Seventy-seven days,” Vincent said softly, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the private room. “That’s a long time to go without paying a person who works for you, Arthur. Especially someone who closes your restaurant every night.”
“Sir, cash flow has been tight—business hasn't been—it’s just a misunderstanding with payroll—”
“Is it?” Vincent lifted his gaze, fixing his dark eyes on the trembling man. “Because according to this document, drawn up by a four-year-old child and verified by basic arithmetic, you bought a new European sports car last Tuesday. In fact, I believe those are the keys sitting on the bar right behind you.”
Mr. Sterling looked back at the bar as if he were seeing it for the first time. “That was a company lease—”
“Marcus,” Vincent said without turning around.
“Boss?” the scarred man answered immediately.
“Go to the register. Open it.”
“You can’t do that!” Mr. Sterling shrieked, panic finally piercing his professional veneer. “That’s private property! That’s grand larceny! I’ll call the police!”
Vincent let out a short, cold breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Call them. Tell Commissioner Hall that Vincent Kane is currently auditing your cash drawer to settle a wage dispute for a woman named Mara Carter. Let me know how quickly he picks up the phone.”
Marcus didn't wait for permission. He strode past Mr. Sterling, pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, and returned less than three minutes later with a heavy canvas money bag and a thick stack of banded bills. He dropped the bag onto the table right next to my crayon-marked paper.
Vincent reached into his inner suit jacket, pulled out a gold-plated fountain pen, and slid a crisp, freshly written check across the table.
“Count it out, Marcus,” Vincent commanded.
“Yes, boss.” Marcus unzipped the canvas bag. Crisp hundred-dollar bills spilled out across the polished wood, joining the coins and small bills Marcus pulled from his own pocket to make exact change.
“Take what your mother is owed, Rory,” Vincent said, looking down at me with an expression that had thawed just enough to show genuine human gravity. “Every single cent. Plus interest for the seventy-seven days of anxiety you and your mother endured.”
I looked at the mountain of cash. It looked like enough money to buy the whole world, or at least all the groceries in the supermarket.
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“Is it really ours?” I whispered, looking up into his dark eyes.
“It is,” Vincent said firmly. “And Mr. Sterling is going to help you carry it home.”
