Chapter 9 - The Morning Shift
At six thirty the following morning, the sun rose over the Chicago sky like a flat sheet of hammered bronze.
The silver sedan pulled into the parking bay behind the L'Etoile building. Marin Hollis turned off the ignition, but she didn't get out right away.
She took her three brown envelopes from beneath the floor mat.
She held the third one—the one with the single blue ink dot in the corner—and looked at it for a long minute. Then she opened her handbag, pulled out a fresh white envelope, slipped the old brown ones inside, and sealed it tight.
She stepped out of the car. Her feet were still tired, but the split lip had stopped bleeding, and the white tape around her left wrist felt clean and firm.
She walked up the rear service steps into the kitchen.
The room was already busy. Thirty prep cooks were at their stations, the steam from the broth kettles rising toward the exhaust hoods.
Bernardet Kowalsski was standing near the pantry door, holding a clipboard, her face pale and lined with sleepless fatigue. When she saw Marin step through the door, she froze, her fingers tightening around her pen.
"Marin..." Bernardet whispered, looking around quickly to see if any of the floor staff were watching. "Child... what happened last night? The main room... the Senator... Miss Whitlock's engagement ring was found in the incinerator drop—"
"Mrs. Kowalsski," Marin said quietly.
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the white envelope, and set it on Bernardet’s clipboard.
"What is this?" the old head waitress asked, her voice trembling.
"That is six thousand dollars," Marin said. "It is to cover the remaining five months of your grandson's hospice care in Evanston."
Bernardet stared at the envelope, then at Marin’s face, her breath catching in her chest. "Marin... no... where did you get this kind of money? If Miss Whitlock finds out—"
"Miss Whitlock will not be coming back to L'Etoile, Mrs. Kowalsski," a deep voice spoke from the kitchen archway.
The kitchen fell dead quiet instantly.
Rafael Santoro stepped through the double doors. He was wearing a dark gray wool suit, his dark hair damp from the morning rain, his gray eyes sweeping across the thirty prep cooks standing at their stations.
He walked straight to Marin’s table.
"Bernardet," Rafe said without looking at the older woman.
"Yes, Mr. Santoro?"
"Miss Hollis is resigning her position on the service floor effective immediately."
Bernardet bowed her head quickly. "Yes, sir. Of course."
Rafe turned his head toward Marin. "Your car is parked on the third basement level, Miss Hollis?"
"Yes, Mr. Santoro."
"Abel is downstairs with the transport team," Rafe said smoothly. "He will have your vehicle moved to the private garage in Evanston. Your mother's old house on 47th Street was repurchased from the city tax authority at five this morning. The renovation crew begins at eight."
Marin looked at him—at his dark suit, his clear gray eyes, and the quiet, absolute authority that moved around him like an invisible current.
"And what am I supposed to do, Mr. Santoro?" she asked quietly.
Rafe reached into his jacket, pulled out a small black leather book—the master inventory ledger for the entire Santoro property network—and laid it on her prep table beside the paring knife.
"You are going to manage the foundation's floor accounts," Rafe said. "Starting with the thirty staff members in this kitchen who have been missing their proper overtime vouchers for the last three years."
Marin looked at the black book, then at the thirty cooks standing silently at their stations, watching her with wide, unblinking eyes.
She did not smile. She reached out, took the black ledger, and tucked it beneath her arm.
"The third quarter audits are three days late, Mr. Santoro," Marin said, her voice flat, clear, and steady as cold iron. "I will need three hours in the upper office to fix the column totals."
May you like
Rafe’s mouth twitched—a tiny, almost invisible movement at the corner of his lips that no one in that building had seen in ten years.
"The elevator is open, Miss Hollis," Rafe said. "After you."
