Chapter 2 - Shadows Beneath the Stairs
The voice belonged to Tommy Ritchie.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I dropped to my knees beside the supply shelves, pressing my palm gently over Ava’s mouth just as a faint, sleepy whimper escaped her lips. Please, sweet girl, don't breathe too loud, I prayed, my eyes stinging with hot, terrified tears.
“I didn't hear anything, Mr. Ritchie,” a kitchen porter’s voice stammered from the hallway. “Just the ice machine acting up again.”
“Fix it then,” Tommy growled. His footsteps lingered for a second—a long, agonizing second—before heavy leather shoes finally squeaked away down the concrete corridor.
I slumped back against a stack of rolled linen napkins, gasping for air. That was too close. If Tommy had opened that door, I would have been fired instantly, blacklisted from every service job in Chicago, and left with zero dollars to feed my daughter. I quickly changed Ava’s diaper in the dim, cramped space, fed her a cold bottle of formula I had warmed under the breakroom tap earlier, and whispered a hundred promises into her hair before sneaking out to the main dining floor.
For the next three hours, I moved like a ghost. I cleared tables, refilled crystal water goblets for wealthy socialites, and smiled until my cheeks ached. Every time the heavy mahogany service doors swung open, my stomach tightened. Rumor had it that Reed Callaway rarely visited the restaurant during dinner service, preferring to run his empire from the upper floors or his subterranean office. But tonight felt different. The air in the kitchen was tense; chefs were sweating bullets, and Elena kept checking her watch with a scowl that could curdle milk.
Around eight o'clock, a commotion broke out near the bar. A prominent city councilman, flushed with expensive scotch, had cornered a young hostess, gripping her wrist too tightly and refusing to let go when she tried to pull away. The other servers looked down, terrified of making a scene.
Without thinking about my rent, my eleven dollars, or Elena’s warnings, I marched straight over.
“Excuse me, Councilman,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient jazz music with unnatural clarity. “Your table on the terrace is ready, and I wouldn't want you to keep your guests waiting.”
The councilman blinked, startled by my intrusion, and loosened his grip on the hostess. His eyes narrowed, taking in my cheap uniform and tired eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who is about to call security if you don't release her arm,” a low, velvety voice interrupted from behind me.
May you like
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees instantly. The councilman went pale, dropping the hostess's wrist as if it were burning hot coal.
I turned around, and for the first time in eleven months of working at Callaway’s, I found myself face-to-face with Reed Callaway himself.
