Chapter 3 - The Private Back Room
Ten minutes later, I wasn't standing in the dining room anymore.
The restaurant manager, a pale man named Henderson whose forehead glistened with cold sweat, had escorted me through a set of heavy, soundproof mahogany doors leading into Dominic Russo’s private back office behind the main kitchen.
The room smelled of old leather, expensive cigars, and high-stakes tension.
Dominic sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the disputed contract spread out before him under the harsh white light of a brass desk lamp. Victoria had been left out in the dining room, barred from entering by two large men in dark suits who guarded the door like statues.
I stood on the other side of the desk, my hands folded neatly in front of my apron.
“Henderson,” Dominic said without looking up.
“Yes, Mr. Russo?” the manager squeaked from the corner.
“Bring Miss Miller a glass of the 2012 Barolo. And clear her schedule for the rest of the night. She’s no longer on floor service.”
Henderson swallowed hard, shooting me a terrified, bewildered glance before scurrying out of the room, clicking the heavy door shut behind him.
Dominic looked up, tapping a gold fountain pen against the edge of the desk. “You’ve got a lot of courage, Casey. Most people in this city shake just hearing my name whispered in an elevator. You walked up to my table, corrected my legal counsel, and negotiated a consultation fee while smelling like industrial floor cleaner and dish soap.”
“Desperation is a wonderful substitute for fear, Mr. Russo,” I answered evenly, accepting the glass of red wine Henderson hurriedly placed on the corner of the desk before vanishing again. I didn't touch the glass; I kept my focus entirely on the man across from me. “My mother has stage-four renal failure. The clinic in Ohio needs twelve thousand dollars by Monday to keep her active on the donor transplant registry. My waitress salary covers rent and groceries. It doesn't cover miracles.”
Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes studying me with an unreadable intensity.
“And you think saving my shipping contracts from a federal indictment is worth twelve thousand dollars?” Dominic asked, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “If what you say is true, you just saved me twenty million dollars in asset forfeiture and a five-year federal prison sentence. Twelve grand is pocket change.”
“Then write the check,” I said.
Dominic didn't move. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a sleek silver cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, but didn't light it.
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“Not so fast,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a colder, more dangerous register. “I don't hand out blank checks to strangers who walk in off the street. How do I know you aren't an informant working for the federal prosecutor’s office? How do I know you didn't plant yourself in my restaurant on purpose?”
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