Chapter 2 - The Midnight Shift
The heavy metal back door of Bellamy’s Steakhouse rattled against the freezing Chicago wind as I pulled my wool coat tighter around my throat. Outside, the snow was falling in thick, silent sheets, blanketing the alley in a layer of pristine white that muffled the distant hum of city traffic.
It was 11:58 PM. The restaurant was officially closed, the front doors locked, and the rest of the closing crew had already cleared out through the employee exit twenty minutes ago. Manager Greg had practically pushed me out the door, reminding me to lock up the back storage room on my way.
Instead, I stayed in the shadows of the brick overhang, my breath pluming into white clouds in the freezing air.
Meet me behind the kitchen at midnight.
My mind was a chaotic storm of common sense screaming at me to go home, and a stubborn, aching curiosity that wouldn't let me walk away. Why me? Out of all the people in Chicago, why did the deaf heir of a ruthless crime syndicate trust a random waitress with a murder accusation and a midnight rendezvous? Because I knew his language. Because I had treated him like a human being when his own father treated him like a prop.
Or maybe because I was the only person who hadn't run away.
A pair of headlights cut through the falling snow at the mouth of the alley. A black Lincoln Navigator crept slowly down the unplowed lane, its tires crunching heavily over the ice. It stopped ten feet away, idling with a low, throaty purr. The passenger side door clicked open, and Caleb stepped out into the biting cold.
He wore a dark wool overcoat, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes. He didn't look like a mobster's son right now; he looked exhausted, tense, and impossibly young.
He strode quickly toward the overhang, stepping out of the wind. When he saw me standing there waiting, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed his features. He stopped a few feet away, his hands coming up immediately.
You actually waited, he signed, his fingers moving with crisp urgency.
“I’m not a coward,” I signed back, my fingers a little stiff in the cold air, though I had practiced enough with Evan to keep up. “And you dropped a bomb—pun intended—while I was trying to serve a ribeye. You owe me some context.”
Caleb let out a short, sharp breath that looked like a laugh, though there was no humor in his eyes. He glanced back at the idling SUV. Through the tinted rear window, I could dimly make out the silhouette of one of Dominic’s bodyguards sitting in the driver's seat.
“He thinks I’m inside getting a smoke,” Caleb signed, his hands moving faster now, driven by nervous adrenaline. “We only have a few minutes before Marcus comes looking for me.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked aloud, forgetting myself for a second before hastily signing the question. “If your father killed your mother, and you have proof—bank records, you said—why are you talking to a waitress? Why haven't you gone to the police?”
Caleb’s expression darkened instantly, a shadow passing over his face that made him look terrifyingly like his father.
The police are on his payroll, he signed sharply. Every judge, every precinct captain, every federal prosecutor within fifty miles of Cook County. If I walk into a station with bank records, they’ll end up in Dominic’s fireplace before the end of the shift. The only way to stop him isn't a badge. It’s exposure. Public destruction. Taking away his money.
“And where do I fit into that?” I demanded, crossing my arms against the chill. “I can’t hack into bank accounts, Caleb. I carry trays of steak and martinis.”
Caleb stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the radiating chill of his coat. His dark eyes locked onto mine with a fierce, magnetic intensity.
You don't need to hack anything. I already did. The records are copied onto an encrypted flash drive. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, dark metal drive, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. I needed someone outside his orbit. Someone he’s never met, someone who has no connection to our world, to take this drive to a journalist I trust.
I stared at the little piece of metal. It looked completely ordinary, yet it held the weight of a multi-million-dollar criminal empire and a fourteen-year-old murder.
“A journalist,” I repeated skeptically. “Who?”
David Garza. The Chicago Tribune. He’s been investigating the Vale family's real estate shell companies for two years, but he’s missing the smoking gun—the specific wire transfers from 2012 that show Dominic paying off the arsonist who rigged the lake house.
“Then why don't you take it to him yourself?”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. He looked away toward the dark mouth of the alley, his hands dropping to his sides for a moment before rising again with heavy reluctance.
Because Dominic has had me under 24-hour surveillance since I turned eighteen. Every phone I use, every website I visit, every person I talk to is monitored. If I walk into the Tribune building, my father will know before I reach the lobby. And Garza will wind up in the river.
The cold air suddenly felt entirely devoid of oxygen. I looked from the flash drive in his hand to his pale, determined face. He wasn't just asking for a favor; he was asking me to step directly into the crosshairs of a ruthless criminal who killed his own wife without blinking an eye.
“And if Dominic finds out I took it?” My voice dropped to a nervous whisper. “What happens to me?”
Caleb looked me dead in the eyes. He didn't offer false reassurances or cheap lies. He gave me the brutal, terrifying truth.
He will find out who you are. He will pull apart your life, your apartment, your family history. He will try to buy you, and if that doesn't work, he will try to destroy you. Caleb’s hands moved slowly, each sign heavy with immense weight. I am asking you to risk everything. Because you’re the only person left in this city who looked at me and saw a person instead of a liability.
He held out the flash drive, resting it flat on his open palm, waiting for my hand.
The wind howled down the alley, whipping loose strands of hair across my face. My mind flashed back to my little brother Evan, to the way people used to look right through him, assuming his silence meant he didn't matter. I had spent my whole life fighting against that kind of casual cruelty.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached out. My cold fingers brushed against his warm palm as I picked the metal drive off his hand and slipped it deep into my coat pocket.
Caleb let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch.
Thank you, he signed, his hands trembling slightly in the freezing air.
Before I could answer, the horn of the Lincoln Navigator gave a sharp, impatient beep from the mouth of the alley. The driver’s side door opened, and a large, broad-shouldered man in a heavy coat stepped out into the snow, peering down the dark lane toward us.
“Caleb!” a rough voice echoed through the wind. “Boss is asking for you. Time to go.”
Caleb stiffened. He gave me one last, piercing look—a mixture of profound gratitude and unspoken warning. Without another sign, he turned and walked quickly back toward the idling vehicle, climbing into the passenger seat before the door slammed shut.
The Navigator shifted into reverse, spun its tires in the slush, and roared out of the alley, leaving me standing alone in the dark with a flash drive burning a hole in my pocket.
I turned back toward the restaurant's back door, my hand tightly gripping the metal drive in my coat. As I reached for the doorknob, a sharp metallic click echoed from the shadows near the dumpster.
I froze.
A figure stepped out from behind the brick pillar, illuminated by the orange glow of the security light. It wasn't the bodyguard. It was manager Greg, holding a clipboard in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, wearing a slow, knowing smirk.
May you like
“Late shift's over, kid,” Greg said, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “Though it looks like you and the Vale kid were having quite a confidential chat. What’d he leave you in that pocket, Cassie?”
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