Chapter 3 - An Invitation in Charcoal
The knock on Sadie’s door came at 7:15 AM.
It wasn't a tentative student knock, nor was it the heavy, aggressive pounding of her landlord demanding back rent. It was a measured, two-part rap—authoritative, polite, and impossible to ignore.
Sadie froze over her frying pan. The eggs were halfway done. She was still wearing her oversized gray sweatpants and a faded college t-shirt, her hair twisted up into a messy bun secured with a broken chopstick.
The knock sounded again.
"I'm coming! Hold on!" she called out, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
She cracked the door open three inches, keeping the security chain securely latched.
Standing in the dim, water-stained hallway was a man she recognized instantly. It wasn't one of the bodyguards from the restaurant. This man was older, perhaps in his late forties, wearing a tailored navy overcoat that looked like it cost more than her entire wardrobe combined. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, and his expression was as neutral as a slab of concrete.
"Miss Bennett?" the man asked, his voice low and cultured.
"Depends who's asking," Sadie said, her fingers tightening on the edge of the door.
"My name is Arthur Vance. I represent Mr. Russo."
Sadie stared at him through the narrow gap. The memory of the gunshots, the smell of cordite, and the sound of the giant’s knee snapping echoed in her ears.
"Look, Mr. Vance, or whatever your name is, I already talked to the cops last night. I told them everything. I tripped over a grease trap, the water spilled, the guy fell. Case closed. I don't know anything about mob wars, I don't care about turf, and I really, really need to finish making my breakfast."
Arthur Vance did not blink. He did not smile. He simply reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, thick cream-colored envelope, sliding it smoothly through the crack in the door. It landed softly on the linoleum floor of her entryway.
"Mr. Russo does not discuss business with the police, Miss Bennett. And he certainly does not consider last night's incident 'closed.'"
"I'm not doing business with him!" Sadie protested, her voice rising. "I'm a waitress!"
"Not anymore," Vance replied calmly. "Lombardi’s health permit was revoked at midnight due to structural damage and 'unforeseen safety hazards.' Your manager, Carl, received a very generous buyout package and is currently on a flight to Boca Raton. You no longer have a job."
Sadie’s jaw dropped. "He did what?"
"Mr. Russo prefers a clean slate," Vance said smoothly. "He asked me to extend an invitation for breakfast. This morning. At nine o'clock. A car will be waiting downstairs."
"And if I say no?"
Vance tilted his head slightly, a shadow of genuine pity crossing his otherwise impassive features. "You have seven dollars and forty cents left in your bank account, Miss Bennett. Even after spending a portion of the three hundred dollars Mr. Russo gave you last night for your shoes. Your lease expires in November, and your landlord has already shown your apartment to a prospective tenant who can pay six months in advance."
Sadie stared at him, a cold spike of panic piercing her chest. "You checked my bank account?"
"Mr. Russo likes to be thorough," Vance said simply. "Nine o'clock. Don't keep him waiting. He dislikes tardiness almost as much as he dislikes uninvited guests with crowbars."
The man turned on his heel and walked down the dimly lit hallway, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor until the heavy metal fire door swung shut behind him.
Sadie looked down at the cream envelope on the floor.
May you like
Slowly, she unlatched the chain, opened the door, and picked it up. Inside was a single card embossed with a minimalist silver crest and an address in Rittenhouse Square—one of the most exclusive residential enclaves in the city.
"Well," Sadie muttered to her empty hallway, tossing the spatula onto the counter. "So much for scrambled eggs."
