Chapter 5 - The Line is Drawn
“Garza,” I whispered, my voice tightening into a panicked rasp as I grabbed the sleeve of his trench coat. “Don't look now, but the man by the door just walked in, and he is staring right at us.”
Garza didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. With practiced, glacial calm, he reached down, pulled a half-empty coffee mug toward himself as if nothing in the world mattered, and kept his voice low.
“Don't panic,” Garza murmured, his eyes darting to the side-view mirror reflection in the diner’s decorative front glass. “Describe him.”
“Broad shoulders, heavy wool coat, scar running down the left side of his jaw,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “He’s walking this way.”
Garza’s expression hardened instantly. “Frank Vance. Dominic’s chief enforcer. If he’s here, Greg didn't just talk—he sang like a canary within ten minutes of you leaving.”
Frank Vance didn't look like a hitman from a movie; he looked worse. He looked like an ordinary, middle-aged accountant who happened to enjoy breaking kneecaps on weekends. His footsteps squished softly against the worn linoleum floor as he approached our booth, stopping two feet away.
Neither Garza nor I looked up immediately.
“Late night for journalism, Garza,” Frank said, his voice a flat, gravelly baritone that carried no warmth whatsoever. “And an even later night for a waitress who should be home counting her tips.”
Garza finally raised his head, offering a slow, mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Frank. Good to see you out of the office. What, did Dominic run out of accountants to intimidate, or are you just picking up late-night takeout?”
Frank didn't smile back. He shifted his heavy gaze from the journalist to me, his cold eyes narrowing like a closing trap.
“Cassie, right?” Frank said smoothly, stepping closer and resting one large, thick hand on the edge of our booth. “The boss was very impressed with your composure tonight at the steakhouse. But you left something behind. A confidential business matter belonging to Mr. Vale.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” I said, forcing my chin up even though my entire body was shaking.
“Let’s not play games, sweetheart,” Frank said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, conversational murmur. “You take a walk in a dark alley with a young man who doesn't speak, and suddenly company property goes missing. Dominic wants his property back. And I’d really rather not turn this nice little diner into a crime scene in front of the local patrons over a misunderstanding.”
Across the booth, Garza’s hand slipped slowly inside his trench coat pocket, his fingers curling around something hidden within.
“Frank, you’re making a lot of noise over a dead man's ledger,” Garza said, his voice as sharp as a razor. “If you touch either of us in a public diner with three witnesses watching, the Tribune publishes the wire transfers by 6:00 AM tomorrow morning. Every federal prosecutor in Illinois will have the files before you finish your shift.”
Frank’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He looked at Garza, then back at me, calculating the risk with cold, brutal efficiency. He knew Garza wasn't bluffing about the newspaper. But he also knew what Dominic Vale would do to him if he returned empty-handed.
“You think you’re holding all the cards, Garza,” Frank said softly, leaning in until his face was inches away. “You think the boy gave you a weapon to destroy us. But you don't know the half of what Caleb is setting up. When this blows up, you aren't just hurting Dominic. You’re handing the keys to a worse monster.”
Before Garza could answer, Frank reached out with terrifying speed, grabbing the collar of Garza’s coat and hauling him halfway across the table with a crash of coffee mugs.
“Give me the drive, Garza!” Frank snarled, his polite facade shattering entirely.
Garza didn't hesitate. With his free hand, he pulled a small pepper spray canister from his pocket and drove it straight into Frank’s face, deploying a blinding cloud of red-hot chemical stream directly into the enforcer’s eyes.
Frank roared in blind fury, releasing Garza’s collar as he staggered backward, cursing wildly and wiping at his face with his sleeve.
“Run!” Garza shouted, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of the booth.
We didn't head for the front door where Frank was thrashing blindly. Garza shoved open the swinging door marked Employees Only behind the counter, plunging straight into the diner’s cramped, steamy kitchen as shouts erupted from the dining room behind us.
We burst out the back exit into the freezing Chicago snow, the cold air hitting our lungs like ice water. As we sprinted toward Garza’s parked sedan down the alley, my mind raced with Frank’s parting words echoing in the dark.
May you like
You’re handing the keys to a worse monster.
Caleb wasn't just a victim seeking justice. He was a general launching a war. And as Garza unlocked the car door and shoved me into the passenger seat, I realized the most terrifying truth of all: I hadn't been rescued by the hero of this story. I had just been drafted by the villain.
