Chapter 4 - Shadows and Schoolyards
Pride is a heavy thing to carry when you are a single mother.
Clara Carter was a proud woman. She didn't want handouts, and she certainly didn't want to be indebted to the most dangerous crime syndicate in Illinois.
For two days, that deed sat on the kitchen counter like a ticking time bomb.
“I can't take it, Rory,” she told me one night, pacing the floor. “You don't take gifts from men like Vincent Kane. It’s not a gift. It’s a collar. Once he owns you, he owns you forever.”
She made a decision. She put on her best dress, put the deed in her purse, and took an Uber to the address of Vincent's primary front—a high-end import/export warehouse by the docks.
She told me this story much later, when I was old enough to understand the gravity of her bravery.
She walked into a warehouse filled with hardened criminals, slammed the deed on a shipping crate in front of Vincent, and said, “Thank you, but I don't belong to anyone.”
Vincent had simply smiled, a rare, terrifying expression.
“You misunderstand, Clara,” he had said smoothly. “It’s not a gift. It’s an investment. You are going to run that bakery. You are going to make it profitable. And I am going to take twenty percent of your net profits. You work for me now. But as my partner, not my servant.”
Mom realized she didn't have a choice. Not really. But she also realized it was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Within a month, The Starry Crumb opened its doors.
We named it after the purple stars on my work log. Mom poured her heart and soul into the pastries, the breads, and the coffee.
Because it was backed by Kane's invisible money, all the zoning permits magically cleared in a day. The health inspector gave us a perfect score without even checking the fridge. Suppliers offered us wholesale prices that made Mom dizzy.
But success in Chicago always casts a shadow.
David Sterling hadn't just lost his Porsche and his pride; he had lost his mind.
His bistro was failing. Rumors had spread about what happened, and nobody wanted to eat at a restaurant owned by a man who crossed Vincent Kane and lived to be a laughingstock.
Sterling was drinking heavily. He owed money to the wrong kind of people—people who didn't care about rules or honor, only blood.
One afternoon, I was playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside the bakery while Mom closed up the registers.
I felt a shadow fall over my squares.
I looked up. David Sterling stood there. He looked terrible. His clothes were wrinkled, his eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like stale whiskey and desperation.
“You little brat,” he hissed, his eyes wide and unhinged. “You ruined my life. You and your tramp of a mother.”
I didn't run. I remembered what Mom said about dogs that bark loudly.
“You ruined your own life,” I said, clutching my piece of pink chalk. “You didn't pay us.”
Sterling lunged forward, grabbing my arm so hard his nails dug into my skin.
“I'm going to take everything from her,” he snarled, dragging me toward the alleyway. “Let's see how much Vincent cares about you when you're gone.”
I opened my mouth to scream.
May you like
Before a single sound could escape my lips, a massive hand clamped down on Sterling’s shoulder.
It was the man with the scar.
