Chapter 2 - The Price of a Seat
The restaurant seemed to drop ten degrees in a matter of seconds.
Daniel Mercer didn't move. He stood frozen on the parquet floor, his jaw slightly slack, staring at Adrien Voss as if the angel of death had just materialized in front of him carrying a bespoke briefcase.
“Mr. Voss,” Daniel managed, his voice cracking like cheap porcelain. “I… I apologize profusely for this former employee’s inexcusable insolence. She’s unstable. I’ll personally escort her out through the kitchen alley right now—”
“I didn't ask for your opinion, Mercer,” Adrien said. His tone wasn’t raised; it didn't need to be. It possessed the razor-sharp calm of a guillotine blade suspended by a single thread. “I gave you an instruction. Lock the front door. Pull the blinds.”
Two men in dark trench coats, whom I hadn't even noticed standing near the entryway, moved instantly. With swift, silent efficiency, one flipped the heavy brass deadbolt on the mahogany doors, while the other pulled down the thick velvet privacy drapes, shutting out the bustling gray afternoon of Michigan Avenue.
The patrons remaining in the room—wealthy lawyers, socialites, brokers—sat entirely paralyzed. No one reached for a phone. No one dared to clear their throat. In Chicago, if you knew the name Voss, you knew that defying an order from him was an invitation to have your life completely dismantled by sundown.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My anger from moments ago suddenly felt reckless, bordering on suicidal. Yet as I looked up into Adrien Voss’s chiseled, impassive face, I forced my spine to stay straight. I had spent my entire life being pushed around by landlords, bosses, and hospital billing administrators. If I was going down, I wasn't going to crawl.
Adrien stepped around the table, his movements graceful, predator-like. He stopped less than two feet from me. Up close, I could smell the scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain on his wool coat. A faint, jagged scar cut through the edge of his left jawline, disappearing beneath his stiff white collar.
“You have an astonishingly sharp tongue, Miss Carter,” he said softly.
“I speak the truth, Mr. Voss,” I replied, surprised that my voice held firm. “Even if it offends powerful people.”
A ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips, gone before it could fully register. He turned his attention toward Daniel, who was trembling so violently that the clipboard in his hands rattled against his belt buckle.
“Tell me, Mercer,” Adrien murmured, walking slowly toward the center of the dining room. “How long has The Linden Room held a lease with Voss Maritime Real Estate?”
Daniel swallowed hard. “F-four years, Mr. Voss. Sir. Your management group holds the commercial master lease for the entire block.”
“Indeed. And do you recall the explicit stipulation written into Section Nine of that commercial contract?”
“I… I don't…”
“Hospitality,” Adrien said, pausing beside Mrs. Ellis’s table. The elderly woman watched him with wide, frightened eyes, but Adrien’s posture softened by a fraction of an inch as he placed a single, leather-gloved hand gently on the back of her chair. “Section Nine guarantees that this establishment maintains the dignity of the historic district. That includes treating our long-standing residents with basic decency.”
Adrien looked Daniel dead in the eye.
“You humiliated a widow over twelve dollars. A woman whose late husband served thirty years in the Chicago Fire Department. Did you know that, Daniel?”
Daniel looked like he was about to vomit. “No, sir… I didn't… she didn't have her wallet—”
“And when someone showed the exact grace and community stewardship this brand pretends to market on its glossy menus,” Adrien continued, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register, “you fired her. You made a spectacle of poverty in front of a room full of gluttons.”
“I was… I was just enforcing company protocol!” Daniel squeaked, desperate. “Zero tolerance for unauthorized tabs! The owners—”
“The owners sold their remaining thirty percent stake to my holding company at nine o'clock this morning,” Adrien cut in coldly.
A collective gasp swept through the room.
Adrien drew a heavy, platinum fountain pen from his breast pocket and tossed it onto an empty linen-covered table. “Which means, Daniel, you don't work for a consortium of suburban investors anymore. You work for me. Or rather… you did.”
Daniel’s knees buckled slightly. “Mr. Voss, please. I have a mortgage. I have—”
“Take off your tie,” Adrien commanded.
Daniel blinked, horrified. “What?”
“Take off your tie, Mercer. Hand your keys to Miss Carter, gather your personal belongings from the back office, and leave through the alley door you so graciously offered her. If you are still in this building in five minutes, my associates will ensure you spend the next five months explaining your tax discrepancies to federal investigators.”
Daniel didn't wait to be told twice. With fumbling, sweating hands, he yanked at his silk necktie, threw his master key ring onto the table with a clatter, and sprinted toward the kitchen swinging doors like a frightened rabbit.
Silence descended upon The Linden Room once more.
Adrien turned to the patrons. “Lunch is on the house today, ladies and gentlemen. Finish your meals, and remember that dignity costs nothing. Miss Carter will see to your needs until the evening manager arrives.”
He then glanced at the two armed men at the door. “Unlock it. Let fresh air in.”
As the room slowly exhaled and a few hushed murmurs broke out, Adrien looked directly at me. He didn't smile. He didn't look heroic. He looked like an apex predator who had merely swatted an irritating fly.
“Outside, Miss Carter,” he said quietly. “My car is waiting.”
“I’m not getting into an unmarked car with a mob boss, Mr. Voss,” I whispered fiercely, stepping back.
He raised an eyebrow. “First of all, it’s a Maybach, and it is registered legitimately with the Illinois Department of Transportation. Second, your mother’s prescription for Cyclosporine costs roughly one thousand four hundred dollars a month out of pocket. You have eight hundred dollars in your checking account. And third…” He leaned in slightly, his gray eyes pinning me to the floor. “…you wanted to know what good power is if it isn't used to help people. I’m about to show you. Five minutes, Sophie.”
He turned and strode out the front doors, the heavy glass swinging shut behind him.
My mind raced. How did he know my mother’s name? How did he know her specific medication? A cold shiver ran through my veins, blending terror with a strange, impossible spike of hope.
I looked down at Mrs. Ellis. The old woman reached out and gently squeezed my wrist.
May you like
“Go on, child,” Mrs. Ellis whispered, her eyes shining with an ancient wisdom. “Men like that don't waste time on people they intend to destroy. Go see what the lion wants.”
***
