Chapter 3 - Shadows of the South Side
The train hummed along the tracks, but Emma heard nothing over the roaring blood in her ears.
The Dragos family.
She knew that name too. The Dragos syndicate controlled the illegal gambling dens and loan-sharking operations along the city’s industrial canals. They were the primary rivals to the Falcone family’s legitimate and illegitimate enterprises.
Beckett hadn't just gotten into debt; he had jumped straight into the mouth of a shark. And somehow, her foolish, selfish brother had let it slip that his sister worked at Rosalind’s—the high-end restaurant owned by Oliver Falcone.
Emma leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the train window. Her mother and sister had come to her apartment last night claiming Beckett was in the hospital. They had lied. They had taken her rent money to pay off the interest on a mob debt, knowing full well that fifty thousand dollars was an impossible sum for a waitress making twelve dollars an hour plus tips.
When Emma reached her basement apartment at one in the morning, she found the front door unlocked.
She pushed it open slowly. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stepped onto the cold linoleum floor.
Sitting on her worn fabric sofa, holding a cup of her instant coffee, was her mother, Wanda. Coraly was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, nervously painting her nails.
“Where have you been?” Wanda demanded, setting the mug down with a sharp clatter. “We’ve been calling you for hours!”
Emma didn't take off her wet coat. She stood by the doorway, her voice flat and stripped of emotion. “He owes fifty thousand dollars to the Dragos family.”
Wanda’s face tightened, but there was no surprise in her eyes—only a flash of guilty irritation. “So you know.”
“You lied to me,” Emma said quietly. “You told me he was in the hospital.”
“If I told you he owed money to bookies, you wouldn't have given us your rent!” Coraly snapped from the table, not looking up from her nails. “You always judge us, Emma! You act like you’re so much better than the rest of this family just because you work two jobs!”
“I give you my money so you don't starve!” Emma shouted, her voice breaking the quiet night. “I live in a basement that floods every time it rains! I wear shoes held together by glue! And Beckett takes fifty thousand dollars from monsters?”
Wanda stood up, smoothing her cheap jacket. “He’s young, Emma. He made a mistake. He thought he could win it back on the college basketball games.”
“He lost money he didn't have!”
“He’s your brother!” Wanda took two steps forward, poking a heavy finger into Emma’s chest. “You’re the oldest! It has always been your responsibility to take care of this family! You work at that fancy place now! We saw the news today—the manager was fired! You’re running the place now, aren't you? You can take fifty thousand from the register!”
Emma stared at her mother, feeling a cold, profound hollow open inside her chest. “You want me to steal?”
“It’s not stealing if you pay it back later!” Wanda argued, her voice rising in desperation. “They’re billionaires, Emma! Oliver Falcone wouldn't even notice fifty thousand dollars! Do you want your brother to die?”
Emma looked at her mother’s face—the lines of age, the sharp desperation, the complete absence of any concern for what would happen to Emma if she were caught stealing from a man like Oliver Falcone. If she stole from Falcone, he wouldn't just fire her. He would destroy her.
“Get out,” Emma whispered.
“What did you say?” Wanda gasped.
“Get out of my apartment,” Emma said, opening the door wider. “Both of you.”
“Emma, he’s your blood!” Coraly yelled, standing up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“My blood is taking everything I have left,” Emma said, her voice shaking with an unyielding rage she had never felt before. “I will figure out a way to deal with the Dragos family. But if either of you ever steps foot in this apartment again, or asks me for a single dollar, I will change my lock and walk away from all of you forever.”
Wanda glared at her daughter with pure venom. “You’re a cold, ungrateful bitch, Emma Frost. Just like your father.”
They swept past her into the damp night air. Emma closed the door, locked it twice, and slid down against the wood until her knees hit her chest.
She didn't cry. She couldn't afford the tears.
At six-thirty the next morning, Emma arrived at Rosalind’s. The rain had cleared, leaving the pavement slick and shiny under the dawn sky.
She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The air was heavy with the smell of polished mahogany, expensive wine, and yesterday’s lingering tragedy.
She walked straight to the manager’s office. The safe sat in the corner, heavy and black. Priscilla’s old ledger lay open on the desk.
Emma sat down in the leather chair, pulled out a clean notebook, and began writing down a list of every supplier, every inventory code, and every employee wage.
At precisely seven o'clock, heavy footsteps echoed through the main dining room.
Emma didn't look up from her ledger. “You’re punctual, Mr. Falcone.”
Oliver Falcone walked into the small office. He was wearing a dark blue suit today, tailored impeccably, his dark hair combed back. Behind him stood Gideon Marsh, carrying a leather briefcase.
Oliver stopped at the edge of the desk, looking down at her neat handwriting. “You’ve been here since six.”
“Six-fifteen,” Emma corrected, finally raising her eyes. “Your food cost percentages are completely out of line. Priscilla was paying thirty percent over market value for seafood. She was getting kickbacks from a supplier called Marcone Meats.”
Oliver didn't look at the paper. He looked directly into her eyes. The dark circles under her eyes were impossible to hide, even with her hair pulled back tightly.
“You didn't sleep,” Oliver observed.
“I had work to do.”
Oliver motioned to Gideon. The large security chief set his briefcase on the desk, opened it, and pulled out a manila folder. He laid it flat in front of Emma.
Inside the folder were three printouts.
The first was a photograph of her brother, Beckett, tied to a chair in a warehouse.
The second was a financial report detailing a fifty-thousand-dollar illegal gambling debt owed to Viktor Dragos.
The third was a copy of the text message sent to Emma’s phone at midnight.
Emma’s breath hitched. She pulled her hands back from the desk as if the folder were on fire.
“How did you get these?” she whispered.
Oliver leaned down, placing both hands flat on her desk, bringing his face inches from hers. His eyes were like chipped granite—cold, unreadable, and terrifyingly sharp.
“Nothing happens in Chicago without my knowledge, Miss Frost,” Oliver said quietly. “Viktor Dragos thinks he can use your brother to put a spy inside my restaurant. He thinks you will steal my money, or open my doors to his men, to save your useless family.”
Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs. She looked at the man who held her entire life in his hands.
“I didn't ask for this,” she whispered, her voice fierce despite her terror. “I didn't take their deal. I didn't steal your money. I came here at six in the morning to do my job!”
Oliver searched her face for a long, agonizing five seconds. The silence in the room was suffocating.
“I know,” Oliver said softly. “If you had touched my safe, Gideon would have removed you from this building two hours ago.”
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Emma swallowed hard. “What are you going to do to my brother?”
Oliver stood up straight, smoothing his jacket. “Your brother made a choice to swim with sharks. Normally, I let fools drown.” He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “But Viktor Dragos made the mistake of using my restaurant’s name in a threat. And he made the mistake of targeting the woman who protected my mother.”
