Chapter 3 - The Contract
Silence sat on the line for three long seconds before Cormac Riley spoke.
"I'm listening, Mrs. Holloway."
June stepped over to the coffee pot, poured herself a cup of black coffee, and leaned against the stainless-steel counter. "Condition one: My staff stays. You don't replace my kitchen crew or my waitstaff with your people. Holloway House caters your events, which means my people get paid their full union wage."
"Agreed," Cormac replied without hesitation. "Condition two?"
"Condition two: I choose the menus. You want high-end catering for your private functions, you trust my kitchen. No corporate mobsters telling me how to season a prime rib."
A faint, low rumble sounded through the receiver—Cormac laughing quietly. "Deal. And the third condition?"
"Condition three," June said, her knuckles turning white around her mug. "When you find out Darren forged that paper—and we both know he did—you handle him away from my diner. My husband worked his entire life to give this place an honest name. I won't have his brother's blood spilled on my floor."
"You have my word," Cormac said, his tone turning utterly serious. "My driver will pick you up at four o'clock today. Our first event is tomorrow evening at the Grand Bellevue Hotel. Two hundred guests. High-profile political donors, city officials... and men who control the docks."
"I'll be ready," June said, and hung up.
At 4:00 PM sharp, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb outside Holloway House. The driver, a tall, silent man with a scar running from his ear to his collar, opened the rear door for June. She wore her best black dress suit—crisp, professional, and immaculate—and carried a thick leather binder containing her kitchen schedules and recipe ratios.
The town car drove downtown, stopping beneath the grand porte-cochère of the Bellevue Hotel. June was escorted up the private elevator to the Penthouse Suite, where Cormac Riley stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty Chicago skyline. He had traded his overcoat for a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, a crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand.
"Mrs. Holloway," Cormac said, turning to face her. "Prompt. I like that."
"Punctuality keeps the soup hot," June said, setting her binder on the glass coffee table. "Let's talk about tomorrow's event."
Cormac walked over, setting his drink down, and sat across from her. For the next hour, June took complete control of the room. She mapped out service timelines, dietary accommodations, wine pairings, and security protocols for the kitchen staff. Cormac listened intently, watching her with a sharp, assessing gaze that made June feel entirely seen in a way she hadn't experienced in years.
"You run a tight operation," Cormac observed as she finalized the prep list.
"I run an efficient operation, Mr. Riley. There's a difference." June closed her binder. "Now, let's talk about why you're really throwing a two-hundred-person gala at the Bellevue."
Cormac’s silver eyebrows raised slightly. "It's a charity benefit for city youth programs."
"It's a power display," June countered cleanly. "You brought me in because you want everyone in that room to know you control Holloway House. You want the city councilmen to see that the woman who feeds half the precinct every morning is working your hall."
Cormac leaned back, a genuine, slow smile spreading across his broad face. "You're much sharper than your husband was, June."
"Ray was honest," June said softly, her voice tightening with defensive loyalty. "He believed people were good until they proved otherwise. That wasn't a flaw, Mr. Riley. That was his gift."
"And what is your gift?" Cormac asked, his dark eyes locking onto hers with intense curiosity.
"I know when the bacon is burning," June said, standing up and pulling on her gloves. "I'll see you tomorrow at 3:00 PM for prep."
As she turned toward the door, Cormac stood up. "Mrs. Holloway?"
She paused, looking back over her shoulder.
"Darren was spotted at the O'Hare terminal two hours ago," Cormac said quietly. "He tried to board a flight to Miami using a fake passport."
June’s heart did a slow, heavy drop. "Did he make the flight?"
"No," Cormac said softly. "My men intercepted him. He's currently sitting in a private suite in South Chicago, waiting for a very long conversation."
June stood frozen in the doorway. Part of her—the sister-in-law who had baked Darren birthday cakes for fifteen years—wanted to beg for mercy. But the widow who had found a two-million-dollar forged debt behind her canned tomatoes remained cold.
"Don't hurt him," June whispered finally. "Just make him tell the truth."
May you like
"The truth is the only thing I care about," Cormac replied.
June stepped into the elevator, the heavy steel doors sliding shut between them, plunging her into the beginning of a war she had never asked to fight.
