Chapter 2 - The Backstage Ledger
The private dining room in the basement of Sterling’s Bistro looked more like an interrogation chamber than a place to enjoy fine wine. Exposed brick walls absorbed the low-frequency hum of the city subway rumbling far beneath the pavement, and the single overhead chandelier cast harsh, clinical light down onto a long mahogany table.
Rory sat quietly in a plush leather armchair that was far too big for her, swinging her legs softly. A massive plate of chicken tenders, fresh fries, and a tall glass of chocolate milk sat before her—ordered personally by Vincent Kane, who had refused to let her leave until she ate.
Across the room, the heavy oak door banged open.
David Sterling rushed in, flanked by his trembling general manager, Marcus Vance, who was sweating profusely through his polyester shirt.
"Vincent! Look, I brought the ledgers," David panted, slamming a heavy leather-bound binder onto the mahogany table. "Every transaction, every payroll sheet, every receipt. We can settle this right now. I have the cashiers’ checks ready—"
"Sit down, David," Vincent said. He sat at the head of the table, slowly cutting a piece of steak on his own plate. He hadn't touched the ledgers.
David sat down, his hands shaking as he tried to open the binder. Marcus stood nervously behind him, dabbing his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.
"Where is Clara Carter?" Vincent asked, not looking up.
David blinked, confused. "She... she’s upstairs. Working her shift. I didn't want to disrupt—"
"Marcus," Vincent said, shifting his piercing gaze to the general manager. "Go upstairs. Tell Clara Carter her shift is over, hand her a certified cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars drawn from David’s personal account, and escort her down here with her coat. If she so much as has to carry a tray down these stairs, I will hold you personally responsible."
Marcus paled. "R-Right away, Mr. Kane!" The general manager practically tripped over his own feet rushing out of the room.
David stared at Vincent in sheer disbelief. "Ten thousand? But the ledger said five thousand four hundred!"
"That was for the back pay," Vincent replied calmly, taking a sip of his water. "The extra four thousand five hundred and sixty-nine dollars and seventy cents is for emotional distress, hazard pay for working under a thief, and interest. Consider it a tuition fee for learning how to treat human beings."
"You can't just dictate terms like a dictator!" David snapped, the panic finally overriding his fear. "This is private enterprise! Labor disputes go through the board! You have no legal right—"
Vincent raised a single finger.
The door opened silently, and two of Vincent’s massive bodyguards stepped inside, carrying a thick stack of manila folders that they dropped onto the table with a heavy thud.
"What are those?" David whispered.
"Those," Vincent said softly, leaning back in his chair, "are the corporate tax evasion records, health code violations, and kickback schemes you ran through your previous three restaurants in River North. It turns out when you cheat people out of their wages, they tend to keep receipts. And when they want someone to look over those receipts, they bring them to me."
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David’s jaw slackened. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking gray and hollow. "You... you investigated me?"
"I don't investigate people, David. I simply wait for them to make mistakes," Vincent said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "And stealing from a mother whose four-year-old daughter has the courage to walk past seven armed guards to collect a debt? That wasn't a mistake. That was an invitation."
