Chapter 8 - The Eve of Destruction
After Douglas left, the restaurant emptied out.
By midnight, the servers had gone home. The kitchen was dark. The only sound was the hum of the reach-in coolers and the distant sirens echoing along High Street.
Hannah walked into my office without knocking, holding two glasses and a bottle of ten-year-old single malt scotch.
She poured two fingers into each glass, pushed one across the desk to me, and sank into the chair Douglas Vance had occupied an hour earlier.
“The cake arrived from *Alinea Confections* an hour ago,” Hannah said, her voice low. “It’s in the pastry walk-in under lock and key.”
“Did Marcus finish the courier arrangements?” I asked.
Hannah nodded. “Three uniformed process servers. One from the Franklin County Sheriff’s Civil Division, two private process agents. They’ll be stationed in unmarked sedans on Pearl Alley behind the patio. When you give the cue, they enter through the kitchen service door.”
I picked up the scotch, swirled the amber liquid, and watched the legs cling to the glass.
“You’ve worked with me for six years, Hannah,” I said. “Tomorrow might get ugly. The police might be called. The local news might catch wind of it. It could hurt the brand for a few weeks.”
Hannah scoffed, taking a long sip of her whisky. “Veronica, half the high-end dining scene in this city is run by cocaine addicts and trust-fund sociopaths who haven't worked a dish pit in their lives. You built this place out of grit and spite. If you let that washed-up carnival barker of a father take it from you, I’ll quit out of sheer disappointment.”
A faint smile touched my lips. “Thanks, Hannah.”
“Is Chloe really going through with it?” Hannah asked.
I pulled out my phone.
At 11:42 PM, I had received a single text message from Chloe’s private number:
*“I packed my passport, my car title, and my original birth certificate in my duffel bag. It’s in the trunk of my Civic parked two blocks away. Whatever you're going to do... don't hold back. I can't live like this anymore.”*
I showed the screen to Hannah.
Hannah let out a slow whistle. “The kid’s got some of your blood after all.”
“She just needed to see the bars on the cage,” I said, locking the phone. “My father spent thirty years convincing us that without him, we were nothing. He made Mom his jailer, he made Chloe his hostage, and he tried to make me his retirement fund.”
I stood up, walked to the large window overlooking the quiet dining floor below.
Tomorrow, eighty of the most powerful people in Columbus would sit at those tables. They would expect a performance. They would expect a humble, prodigal daughter bowing before the triumphant return of her father’s dynasty.
They were going to get a performance, all right.
May you like
Just not the one they were paying for.
***
