Chapter 3 - The Black Card
The matte-black card sat on the sticky kitchen counter like a glowing piece of kryptonite.
Chloe stared at it under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Il Canto dish station while the clatter of ceramic plates echoed around her. Marco was leaning against the stainless-steel prep table, his eyes wide as saucers, staring at the embossed gold emblem.
“Do you have any idea what this is?” Marco whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
“It’s a business card, Marco. It has a phone number and a name,” Chloe said, though her own hands were shaking as she tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“It’s not just a business card, Chloe! That’s the inner-circle crest of the Costello organization,” Marco hissed, glancing nervously toward the alley doors as if a hit squad might burst through at any second. “People wait years, commit felonies, or launder millions just to get a handshake from someone carrying that emblem. And Gabriel Costello just handed it to a twenty-four-year-old college dropout who serves chicken parmigiana.”
“I didn't ask for it,” Chloe said defensively, wiping down the counter with a damp rag. “He just shoved it across the table and told me I was on retainer.”
“On retainer for what? Translating sign language?” Marco threw his hands in the air. “Chloe, do you know what this means? It means you’re tied to them now. In their world, you don't just walk away from a retainer. If Gabriel Costello tells you to show up somewhere to translate, you show up. If he tells you to keep your mouth shut, you keep your mouth shut.”
“I can say no,” Chloe said, though even as the words left her mouth, she knew they sounded hollow.
“You can’t,” Marco said grimly. “Nobody says no to Gabriel. Not in this neighborhood. Not unless they want their restaurant to mysteriously catch fire on a Tuesday night.”
Before Chloe could reply, the kitchen doors swung open, and Dante—the scarred lieutenant from Table 7—stepped into the kitchen. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to drop instantly. The line cooks froze, staring at their cutting boards.
Dante walked with a slow, heavy-footed confidence, his tailored grey suit fitting him like a second skin. He didn't look at Marco, nor did he look at the cooks. His cold, dark eyes locked directly onto Chloe.
“Miss Bennett,” Dante said, his voice a gravelly baritone that carried easily over the hum of the ventilation hood.
Chloe swallowed hard, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mr... Dante, right?”
“Just Dante,” he said, stopping a few feet away from her. He reached into his jacket pocket, and Chloe’s muscles tensed, her mind flashing to every bad mob movie she had ever seen. But instead of a weapon, he pulled out a thick, white envelope sealed with a heavy red wax stamp bearing the same gold crest.
He placed it neatly on the counter beside her.
“Mr. Costello sends his regards,” Dante said smoothly. “And his advance payment.”
“I didn't agree to this,” Chloe said, keeping her chin up.
Dante’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Mr. Costello doesn't operate on contingencies, Miss Bennett. When he retains a service, he pays for it. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, a car will pick you up at your apartment building.”
“Pick me up? For what?” Chloe demanded.
“Beatrice Costello is hosting a charity luncheon at her estate in Westchester,” Dante said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “There will be twenty deaf guests in attendance, along with several high-profile donors and local politicians. Mr. Costello realized halfway through his risotto that he couldn't understand a single word his mother said to her friends. He wants you there.”
“I have classes tomorrow morning,” Chloe lied smoothly. She didn't have classes; she had a stack of past-due bills and an empty refrigerator.
Dante tilted his head, his scarred cheek pulling into a sharp angle. “Your landlord is Mr. Henderson, correct? Living at 412 Elm Street, apartment 3B?”
Chloe’s blood ran cold. “How do you know that?”
“Mr. Costello likes to know who is employing the people in his orbit,” Dante said calmly. “He also knows your rent was due three days ago, and your account balance currently sits at seventy-two dollars and forty cents. The envelope on the counter contains five thousand dollars in cash as a weekly retainer. That should cover your rent, your groceries, and a very nice dinner for yourself.”
Marco, standing three feet away, made a choked sound like a dying goose.
“You’re investigating me?” Chloe glared at Dante, her anger finally overriding her fear. “You’re running background checks on waitresses?”
“We do diligence on everyone,” Dante replied without missing a beat. “Be at your front entrance at nine sharp tomorrow. Don't keep the driver waiting. Gabriel hates being kept waiting.”
With that, Dante turned on his heel, walked out of the kitchen, and let the heavy doors swing shut behind him.
Silence descended on the kitchen once more. Marco slowly turned his head to look at Chloe, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and absolute terror.
“Five thousand dollars,” Marco whispered. “In cash. For one week of translating.”
Chloe stared at the white wax-sealed envelope. She knew, with every fiber of her being, that accepting it meant stepping across a threshold she could never cross back over. It meant entering the orbit of dangerous men, illegal shipments, and a world built on blood and money.
Yet, as she thought about her empty bank account, the eviction notice taped to her apartment door, and the crushing weight of survival, her trembling fingers reached out.
May you like
She picked up the envelope.
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