Chapter 3 - The Price of a Secret
My stomach dropped straight through the frozen asphalt.
Greg stood under the orange glow of the security light, smoke curling lazily from the tip of his cigarette as he exhaled into the freezing night air. His eyes weren't angry; they were calculating. The easygoing, slightly sloppy restaurant manager who always forgot to order extra paper towels had vanished. In his place stood a man who had clearly just seen something he shouldn't have—and was already calculating what it was worth.
“Greg,” I managed, forcing my voice to remain steady while my hand remained clamped like a vise over the flash drive in my coat pocket. “What are you still doing here? I thought you left twenty minutes ago.”
Greg took another slow drag, his eyes flicking down to my coat pocket before rising back to meet mine.
“Left my keys on the prep table,” he lied smoothly, though he didn't have any keys in his hands. He tossed the cigarette butt into the snow and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “And I’m glad I came back. Because otherwise, I might have missed Bellamy’s most reliable waitress making midnight handoffs with Chicago’s most infamous mafia heir.”
I stepped back, my shoulder hitting the frozen brick wall of the alley. “You don't know what you’re talking about.”
“Don't I?” Greg chuckled, taking a step closer. The casual warmth he usually projected was gone, replaced by a greedy, predatory edge. “Cassie, I’ve managed this place for five years. You think Dominic Vale and his crew just stroll in here because they like the ribeye? They come here because this neighborhood is their backyard. And tonight, the boss’s son—the deaf kid everyone thinks is a vegetable—meets my closing waitress in a dark alley for a secret exchange.”
He held out his hand, palm up.
“Hand it over.”
“Hand what over?” I snapped, my defensive instincts kicking in.
“Whatever Caleb Vale just shoved into your coat pocket,” Greg said, his voice dropping its friendly pretense entirely. “Look, I’m not looking to get mixed up in whatever mob war you two are playing at. But Dominic Vale pays very, very well for information. If his kid is passing contraband behind my kitchen, I’m the one who finds out first. And I’m the one who gets paid for it.”
The sheer betrayal hit me harder than the cold wind. Greg. Mild-mannered, joke-cracking Greg, who always asked about my rent and covered my shifts when I had a cold. He wasn't just a bystander; he was a opportunist ready to sell me out to the highest bidder without a second thought.
“You think Dominic is going to reward you?” I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the empty alley. “Greg, you fool. If you go to Dominic and tell him his son is moving behind his back, he won't give you a bonus. He’ll assume you know too much and put you in the trunk of a car before breakfast.”
Greg’s hand hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine doubt crossing his eyes. But greed quickly took over, hardening his features.
“That’s a risk I’ll manage,” Greg sneered, lunging forward to grab my arm. “Give me the drive, Cassie. Now.”
I didn't think. I reacted.
Years of dodging aggressive customers and wrestling heavy supply crates had given me a lot more leverage than Greg expected. As his hand reached for my coat, I drove the heel of my boot straight down onto his instep with all my weight.
Greg let out a sharp Yelp of pain, stumbling backward and clutching his foot as he hopped on one leg in the snow.
“You little—” he gasped.
I didn't wait for him to recover. I spun around, shoved the heavy metal back door open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind me, throwing the heavy deadbolt into place with a resounding metallic thud.
Inside the dark, warm kitchen, my chest heaved as I fought to catch my breath. Through the wire-reinforced glass window of the door, I could see Greg limping up to the glass, his face contorted in furious rage, pounding his fist against the metal frame.
“Open this door, Cassie! You think you can run? I know where you live! I know your schedule!”
His muffled shouts echoed off the stainless-steel counters. I didn't answer. I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers, bypassed the lock screen, and dialed the only number that mattered right now.
It rang twice before a deep, calm, slightly gravelly voice answered.
“Garza.”
“David Garza?” I breathed out, my voice trembling.
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“My name is Cassie Vance,” I said, pressing the phone hard against my ear as I heard Greg starting to kick the back door. “I work at Bellamy’s Steakhouse. Caleb Vale gave me something to give to you. Proof about the lake house explosion fourteen years ago. Proof that Dominic Vale killed his wife.”
On the other end of the line, absolute silence fell for three seconds. When Garza spoke again, all the casual weariness in his voice was gone, replaced by razor-sharp focus.
“Where are you?” Garza demanded.
“I’m inside the restaurant, but my manager just caught me and he’s going to tell Dominic,” I said frantically, looking around the dark kitchen as a loud crash echoed from the back door. The glass in the windowpane was starting to spiderweb under Greg’s boots. “I have to get out of here now.”
“Don't move,” Garza commanded. “Listen to me, Cassie. Do not go out the back. Do not go home. Go out the front dining room doors—they have a manual push bar from the inside even when locked. Walk three blocks east to the 24-hour diner on Wabash. Get a booth in the back, keep your head down, and do not talk to anyone. I’m leaving my apartment right now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeated, my heart pounding in my throat. “Hurry.”
I hung up, shoved the phone back into my pocket, and grabbed my coat tighter. Another heavy kick cracked the wood around the back door frame. Greg was about to break the lock.
I turned and sprinted through the swinging doors into the pitch-black dining room. Moonlight filtered through the large front windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the empty tables and chairs where families had been dining just hours earlier. I reached the heavy glass front doors, threw my weight against the panic bar, and pushed.
The door clicked open, and the freezing Chicago wind rushed in to greet me.
May you like
I slipped out onto the snowy sidewalk, pulled my hood down low over my face, and started running east toward Wabash, carrying fourteen years of family secrets in my pocket.
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