Chapter 7 - A Shadow from the Past
The success of Mara’s Kitchen grew week by week, turning our little corner of Chicago into a vibrant community hub. But peace in a city like Chicago rarely goes entirely unchallenged, especially when old power structures are disrupted.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday evening, three months after our grand opening.
The dinner rush had just wound down. I was sitting in my favorite corner booth, happily coloring in a new drawing book while Mommy was in the back office finishing up the weekly supply orders. Marcus, who had practically become a regular fixture at the restaurant—mostly to “ensure quality control,” though everyone knew he was just keeping an eye on us—was sitting at the bar nursing a sparkling water.
The front door chimed.
Two men walked in. They didn’t look like regular diners. They wore cheap, ill-fitting leather jackets, their hair slicked back with too much gel, and their eyes darted around the room with nervous, predatory aggression. One of them had a jagged scar along his jawline and a toothpick dangling from his lip.
Marcus stiffened instantly, his hand slipping casually beneath his coat.
The two men strode right past the host stand, ignoring the empty tables, and headed straight toward the back office door where Mommy was working.
“Hey! Excuse me, gentlemen, the restaurant is closing in twenty minutes, you need to wait to be seated,” I called out, standing up on the bench of my booth with my hands on my hips, channeling my best adult voice.
The man with the toothpick paused, sneering down at me. “Shut it, kid. We’re here to see the boss lady. Tell her Tommy G and his crew are here to collect the neighborhood protection fee. Tell her rent just went up.”
My chest tightened. Protection fee. I remembered that word from the scary stories Mommy used to tell me about why bad men ruined good businesses.
Before I could even open my mouth to yell, Marcus was already there.
He didn't yell. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply reached out, grabbed Tommy G by the scruff of his cheap leather jacket, and hoisted him off the floor with one hand as if he weighed nothing at all.
“Protection fee?” Marcus asked, his voice deathly quiet, dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. “That’s funny. I wasn't aware Vincent Kane had outsourced his collections to stray dogs.”
Tommy G went pale, his boots kicking uselessly in the air. “Wh—who the hell are you? Let me down! We work for Sal Marcone! Marcone runs this district!”
“Marcone runs nothing anymore,” Marcus said flatly. “And he certainly doesn't run this street.”
The back office door swung open, and Mommy stepped out, looking calm and collected. She took one look at Tommy G dangling in Marcus’s grip, sighed softly, and crossed her arms.
“Marcus, put him down before he ruins the floor wax,” Mara said coolly.
Marcus dropped Tommy G with a heavy thud. The man scrambled backward, gasping for air, his tough-guy facade completely shattered.
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“You’re… you’re Mara?” Tommy stammered, rubbing his neck. “Marcone said this place was easy pickings, that the new owner was just some waitress—”
“Tell Sal Marcone,” a deep, resonant voice interrupted from the doorway, “that if any of his stray dogs ever set foot within three blocks of Mara’s Kitchen again, I won't just break his fingers. I’ll dismantle his entire operation brick by brick.”
