Chapter 2 - The Audit of David Sterling
The heavy mahogany doors of Sterling’s Bistro were locked from the inside with a resounding thud that signaled to the bustling Chicago street outside that lunch service had abruptly, permanently ended.
Inside, the atmosphere had transformed from a high-end dining establishment into an improvised tribunal.
Clara Carter sat gingerly at Vincent Kane’s private table. She looked terrified, her hands clasped tightly around a porcelain teacup filled with chamomile and honey, her eyes darting nervously between the armed men standing guard at the perimeter and the towering figure of Vincent Kane himself.
She wore a faded navy blouse, her hair pulled back in a practical, frayed bun, her face pale with the exhaustion of someone who hadn't slept a full night in three months.
“Mr. Kane,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling as she looked down at Rory, who was happily eating a plate of warm buttermilk pancakes and fresh berries Marcus had personally ordered from the panicked kitchen staff. “I... I am so sorry. She shouldn't have wandered out here. I told her to stay in the breakroom. If she bothered you—if she took up your time—I can leave right now. We don't want any trouble.”
Vincent poured a fresh cup of tea, sliding it gently across the white linen cloth toward her.
“Clara, look at me,” Vincent said.
She looked up, her watery brown eyes meeting his steely gaze.
“Your daughter did not bother me,” Vincent said, his voice level and steady. “She showed more courage before noon today than half the city council displays in a full legislative term. Now, drink your tea. We have business to attend to.”
Across the room, David Sterling was flanked by two of Vincent’s enforcers. He hadn't been zip-tied, but he didn't dare move an inch. His expensive silk designer shirt was soaked with sweat under the arms, and his breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Marcus,” Vincent called out without turning around. “Where is the restaurant’s primary ledger?”
Marcus stepped out from the manager’s office holding a thick, leather-bound accounting ledger and a sleek silver laptop. He dropped them both onto Vincent’s table with a heavy thud.
“Found it in Sterling’s private safe behind the framed liquor license,” Marcus reported, pulling up a chair and sitting beside Vincent. “And before Sterling could wipe the hard drive, I pulled the digital payroll records for the last twelve months.”
Vincent opened the leather ledger, his eyes scanning the columns with the sharp, merciless efficiency of a Wall Street forensic accountant who also happened to run the largest illicit shipping empire in the Midwest.
“Let’s see,” Vincent murmured, flipping a page. “Seventy-seven days of unpaid labor for Clara Carter. Base rate: twenty-two dollars an hour. Plus overtime for closing shifts. Plus holiday differentials.” Vincent looked up, his grey eyes fixing on David Sterling. “David, your ledger says Clara’s department has been fully funded every single month by corporate disbursements. So where did her wages go?”
Sterling swallowed hard, his voice squeaking. “It—it was cash flow management, Vincent! The suppliers! The liquor distributor demanded upfront capital! I fully intended to reimburse her—”
“You intended to buy a Porsche,” Vincent corrected softly, pointing a finger toward the gleaming keys still resting on the floor near the bar. “A Guards Red 911 Carrera S. Sticker price: one hundred and forty-two thousand dollars. Purchased in cash three days ago.”
The dining room went dead silent. Clara Carter gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she stared at Sterling in utter disbelief.
“You bought a sports car with my daughter's grocery money?” Clara whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a sudden, boiling surge of maternal rage. “I worked twelve-hour double shifts scrubbing your grease traps and managing your inventory while my child went to sleep crying from hunger, and you bought a car?”
Sterling flinched as if he had been physically struck. “Clara, please! Let’s be reasonable! We can work out a payment plan! Ten percent interest! Twenty percent!”
Vincent closed the ledger with a slow, deliberate snap.
“There will be no payment plan, David,” Vincent said, standing up from the table. He picked up his silk jacket, slipping his arms into the sleeves with practiced grace. “You had seventy-seven opportunities to be an honest man. You chose to be a thief.”
“Vincent, wait!” Sterling cried out, taking a frantic step forward before Marcus’s heavy hand clamped down onto his shoulder like an industrial vise, forcing him back down into a dining chair. “You can’t do this! I have rights! I’ll call the police!”
“Call them,” Vincent replied, a cold, humorless smile touching the corners of his lips. “Tell the police that Vincent Kane is auditing your restaurant. See how fast dispatch hangs up on you.”
Vincent walked slowly across the floor until he stood directly over Sterling.
“Here is how this works,” Vincent said softly, leaning down so only Sterling could hear. “By sunset today, Sterling’s Bistro is no longer yours. The deed, the liquor license, the commercial lease, and all liquid assets in the business accounts will be transferred outright to Clara Carter. You will pack a single suitcase, leave the Porsche in the alley, and catch a bus out of Cook County before midnight.”
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Sterling’s eyes bulged in absolute terror. “You’re taking everything?! That’s my life’s work! That’s—that’s a million-dollar enterprise!”
“It was,” Vincent corrected, straightening his cuffs. “Now it’s back pay with interest.”
