Chapter 3 - The Toll of the West SideI stood up automatically, the restaurant uniform suddenly feeling like armor that was far too thin for what was coming. “What happened?” I signed, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to keep them steady.
Salvatore buttoned his suit jacket, his gaze fixed on the heavy door where his bodyguard stood at attention. “Brett and two of your kitchen coworkers decided to call the CPD narcotics division from the alley. They told the police a known criminal was conducting an illegal exchange in the private dining room, hoping to get me raided, arrested, or worse.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. “The police are coming here? To the restaurant?”
“They’re already in the lobby,” Salvatore signed, a dangerous, razor-thin smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Which means your manager just ensured that he will never work in this industry again—and neither will the men who helped him.”
Before I could process the full implications of what Brett had done, the distant sound of heavy footsteps and raised voices echoed through the outer dining area. Bright flashing red and blue lights began to paint the stained-glass windows of our private room in frantic, electric strokes.
The door burst open.
Two uniformed Chicago police officers rushed into the hallway, hands resting on the grips of their holstered service weapons. Behind them, scurrying like a cornered rat, was Brett, pointing a shaking finger directly toward our room.
“That’s him!” Brett screamed, his voice cracking with hysterical triumph. “That’s Salvatore Marquetti! And she’s in there working with him—she’s part of whatever illegal front they’re running!”
The lead officer, a burly sergeant with a graying mustache and tired eyes, stepped past the threshold, drawing his firearm halfway from its holster. “Mr. Marquetti. Stay where you are. Hands where I can see them.”
Salvatore didn't raise his hands. He didn't even take a step back. He simply stood beside the mahogany table, looking at the police sergeant with an expression of supreme, chilling indifference.
One of Salvatore’s bodyguards moved to step in front of him, but Salvatore raised a single finger, stopping the enforcer instantly.
Instead of panicking, Salvatore turned his head slightly toward me, his hands moving with deliberate, unhurried calm.
“Watch this, Tessa,” he signed to me, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “This is how the west side really works.”
The police sergeant marched forward, pulling a folded paper from his breast pocket. “We received an anonymous tip regarding unauthorized contraband and an illegal meetup—wait. Marquetti, what is this?”
The sergeant’s eyes flicked down to the table, where the hospital receipt, the medical clearance, and the financial audit notes lay scattered in plain sight. Then his gaze shifted to Salvatore, and something strange happened. The aggressive posture of the veteran cop noticeably softened. He cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“Uh... sir,” the sergeant stammered, lowering his weapon an inch. “We received a call from... well, from out in the hall.”
Salvatore reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a small, heavy gold-embossed card, and flicked it across the linen tablecloth. It slid smoothly until it tapped against the sergeant’s polished boot.
The sergeant looked down, picked up the card, and his face instantly drained of color. It was an encrypted direct-line liaison pass issued by the office of the City District Attorney, bearing a signature that local beat cops were explicitly trained never to question.
“My apologies, Mr. Marquetti,” the sergeant said quickly, snapping the card back onto the table and offering a stiff, awkward nod. “We received a false report. We’ll be clearing the premises immediately.”
Outside in the hallway, Brett let out a strangled gasp. “Wait! What are you doing?! He’s a criminal! Search them! She’s working for him!”
The sergeant turned around, walking out into the corridor where Brett and the other servers stood shaking. “Mr. Blake, is it? Making false emergency reports to law enforcement is a Class A misdemeanor in the state of Illinois. Congratulations, you’ve just earned yourself a ride downtown in the back of a squad car.”
Through the open door, I watched in stunned disbelief as two officers grabbed Brett by the arms. He shrieked and protested, his face turning bright red as he was hauled away past the flashing lights of the patrol cars.
The door clicked shut once more, leaving us back in the quiet sanctuary of the private room.
May you like
Salvatore turned his attention back to me, his expression softening once more. He raised his hands and signed a single sentence that changed the trajectory of my entire life.
“Your shift here is over, Tessa. Pack your apron. It’s time you came to work for someone who actually knows your worth.”
