Chapter 1 - The Weight of Seven Stars
The crystal tumbler in Vincent Kane’s hand did not shake. Not a single ripple disturbed the amber surface of the twenty-year-old scotch. But across the mahogany table in the back corner of Sterling’s Bistro, the air felt as though it had been drawn out by a vacuum. The heavy, insulated silence of a room full of frightened, powerful men folded over the dining hall, pressing down against the linen tablecloths and the expensive crystal chandeliers.
David Sterling stood twenty feet away by the mahogany bar, his face frozen in a manic, half-finished smile. His fingers, which had been gracefully spinning the gleaming chrome keychain of his brand-new Guards Red Porsche 911 Carrera S, had gone completely rigid. The keys slipped from his grip, hitting the Italian floor tiles with a sharp, metallic clink that echoed like a pistol shot in the hush.
Vincent did not look at David. Not yet.
His piercing, storm-gray eyes remained fixed on the tiny piece of lined yellow notebook paper resting between the silver salt and pepper cellars. There, written in Clara Carter’s neat, exhausted handwriting, were the numbers. Seventy-seven days. Eleven weeks. Five thousand, four hundred and thirty dollars and thirty cents.
And beneath them, drawn with a wobbly, earnest child’s hand, were the purple crayon stars.
“You drew these?” Vincent asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards.
Four-year-old Rory Carter stood tall, her tiny red hoodie zipped up to her chin, her small hands resting protectively on the edge of the table. She nodded once, her dark curls bouncing.
“Every time Mom didn't get to eat dinner so she could buy my milk, I drew a star,” Rory said, her voice entirely devoid of the trembling fear children usually felt around men who commanded syndicates. “She told me we were saving up for a bicycle. But she hasn't bought groceries in a month. She just drinks black tea and says she’s not hungry.”
A muscle twitched along Vincent’s jawline—a micro-movement of pure, cold fury that every caporegime and associate in his inner circle recognized as the threshold of an execution order.
Marcus, Vincent’s most senior enforcer, took half a step forward, his hand hovering near his shoulder holster. “Boss. Shall I handle Sterling?”
Vincent raised a single finger. The command was absolute. Marcus froze mid-stride.
Vincent reached out, his large, calloused hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and brokered international shipping monopolies—gently touching the edge of the yellow paper as if it were a fragile historical artifact. He traced one of the purple crayon stars with the tip of his thumb.
“Seventy-seven days,” Vincent murmured, his eyes finally shifting from the paper to look across the room at David Sterling.
Sterling looked like a man who had just watched his own executioner step out of a nightmare. He backed away from the bar, his spine hitting the mahogany shelving, scattering a row of empty cocktail glasses that shattered into glittering shards across the floor.
“V-Vincent,” Sterling stammered, his voice cracking with pathetic desperation as he threw his hands up in a placating gesture. “Wait—listen to me! It’s a misunderstanding! The restaurant cash flow has been tight, the seasonal turnover—it’s just a bookkeeping error! I can write a check right now! This minute!”
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. In the acoustics of the vaulted dining room, every syllable carried the weight of an avalanche.
“You didn't just steal from a worker, David,” Vincent said softly, his gaze locked on the trembling restaurateur. “You stole from a mother. And then you made her child walk past seven armed men to ask for bread in my house.”
Vincent stood up. At six-foot-four, his presence dominated the entire room. He looked down at Rory, his expression softening into something so unexpectedly tender that Marcus and the other bodyguards stared in undisguised shock.
“Rory,” Vincent said, kneeling down so he was eye-level with the little girl. “Where is your mother right now?”
“In the small office behind the kitchen,” Rory whispered, pointing a small finger toward the service corridor. “She’s inventorying the wine cellar. She said if she finishes early, maybe Mr. Sterling will give her twenty dollars for the bus.”
Vincent stood back up, his face hardening back into granite. He unbuttoned his custom-tailored charcoal suit jacket, slipped off his expensive silk tie, and draped it carelessly over the back of his chair.
“Marcus,” Vincent commanded coldly.
“Boss?”
“Go to the office. Bring Clara Carter out here. Give her a chair at my table. And make sure she has a hot meal and a glass of warm water before she says a single word to me.”
“And Sterling?” Marcus asked, his lips curving into a sharp, lethal smirk.
May you like
Vincent glanced sideways at David Sterling, who was now sweating profusely, his back pressed hard against the splintered glass behind the bar.
“Leave him right where he is,” Vincent said. “He’s about to learn what happens when you balance your ledger with a little girl's dinners.”
