Chapter 3 - The Morning Shift
The alarm clock buzzed viciously at 5:00 AM, cutting through the silence of the apartment like a buzzsaw.
Sadi groaned, rolling over and slamming her palm against the snooze button. Her muscles felt like lead, her joints aching from the double shift the day before. But there was no time to linger in bed. Maya had her chemistry midterm at eight, and the diner on 5th Street opened at six sharp.
Twenty minutes later, Sadi was standing behind the battered laminate counter of Dot’s Diner, tying a faded pink apron around her waist while pouring black coffee into thick ceramic mugs for two truck drivers sitting at the counter.
“Morning, Sadi,” grunted old man Miller, a regular who drove the early morning milk route. “You look like you wrestled a bear and lost.”
“Felt like it, Miller,” Sadi replied with a tired grin, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon across the counter. “Extra crispy bacon for you today, just how you like it.”
The diner was warm, smelling of grease, frying onions, and old coffee grounds—a stark, comforting contrast to the cold marble and crystal glassware of Tossano’s. Here, the problems were simple: burnt toast, short tips, and the occasional leaking coffee machine. It was honest work, and it paid the rent, week by grueling week.
Around 7:30 AM, the bell above the diner door jingled.
Sadi didn’t look up immediately as she wiped down a table in the corner booth. “Grab a seat anywhere, folks, I’ll be right with you—”
“I prefer the counter,” a low, resonant voice cut through the hum of the diner’s radio.
Sadi froze. The cloth slipped slightly in her hand.
She turned slowly.
Sitting on one of the chrome-and-red-vinyl stools near the register was Roman Costa.
He was wearing a simple charcoal jacket over a black t-shirt, his hair slightly Tousled by the morning wind. The white bandage was gone, replaced by neat, professional medical tape wrapped tightly across his right knuckles. He wasn't yelling, he wasn't smashing furniture, and his eyes weren't manic. He was just sitting there, calmly spinning a dry sugar shaker between his fingers.
The two truck drivers at the end of the counter glanced over, noticed the tailored Italian cut of his jacket—which looked entirely out of place among the grease-stained overalls of the diner regulars—and wisely turned back to their coffee without a word.
Sadi took a deep, steadying breath, dropped the cleaning rag into her apron pocket, and walked over to the counter. She stopped two feet from him, crossing her arms over her chest.
“We don't serve scotch at seven in the morning, Mr. Costa,” Sadi said, her voice dropping into a cool, professional register. “And if you're here to throw a mug at the short-order cook, grease traps are a lot harder to clean than wood paneling.”
Roman stopped spinning the sugar shaker. He looked up at her, a faint, humorless curve touching the corner of his lips.
“Good morning to you too, Sadi,” he said, his voice smooth and surprisingly soft. “And for the record, I’m a black coffee and blueberry muffin kind of guy in the morning. No scotch required.”
Sadi didn’t smile. She reached behind the counter, grabbed a heavy ceramic mug, and filled it to the brim with steaming black coffee, sliding it across the laminate surface toward him.
“You found my workplace,” she said flatly, keeping her eyes locked on his. “Took you less than eight hours. Color me impressed.”
“It’s my job to know who moves through the city,” Roman said, taking a slow sip of the coffee without flinching at the heat. He set the mug down and rested his arms on the counter, leaning in just slightly. “And it’s my job to figure out why a twenty-two-year-old college dropout working two jobs looks at a guy holding a broken chair like he’s an annoying gnat instead of a loaded gun.”
“I didn't look at you like a gnat,” Sadi corrected coolly. “I looked at you like someone who was making a mess in a room I had to clean before I could go home and sleep for four hours. Big difference.”
Roman chuckled—a low, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a brown paper envelope, sliding it across the counter toward her.
Sadi looked down at the envelope, her instincts screaming at her to push it back. “What is this?”
“Open it,” Roman said quietly.
Sadi hesitated, glanced toward the kitchen where Dot, the seventy-year-old owner, was busy flipping pancakes, and then slowly picked up the envelope. She slid the flap open and tipped it over.
A set of official municipal tax documents slid out onto the counter, alongside a bank printout bearing a red-ink stamp: FROZEN - MUNICIPAL AUDIT.
Sadi’s eyes scanned the top page. Her breath caught in her throat.
It was the incorporation deed for Morgan Mechanics—her late father’s garage—dated six years ago. Attached to it was a ledger showing thousands of dollars funneled through the garage’s dormant account into an offshore shell corporation she had never heard of.
“Where did you get this?” Sadi whispered, her voice tightening, all the cool detachment evaporating from her face in an instant.
“My father’s accountants found it last night,” Roman said, watching her reaction with hawk-like precision. “A ghost front company operating out of a dead man’s garage, bleeding our municipal shipping lines. Thomas Morgan was your father, wasn’t he?”
Sadi slammed her hand down on the counter, her hazel eyes blazing with sudden, fierce fury. “My father died of a broken heart and an empty bank account four years ago! He was an honest mechanic who couldn't afford to buy his own tools by the time the city seized his shop for back taxes! He never had offshore accounts! He never stole a dime from anyone!”
“I know,” Roman said softly, surprising her.
Sadi stared at him, her chest heaving. “What did you say?”
“I said I know,” Roman repeated, his voice steady and devoid of mockery. “Because the signature on those municipal authorization forms isn't your father’s. It’s a forgery. And the man who signed off on the seizure of your father’s garage four years ago, and who just so happened to sign the fraudulent shipping transfers last week... is Councilman Arthur Vance.”
The diner around them seemed to fade into a distant hum. Sadi gripped the edge of the counter, the paper documents cold beneath her fingertips.
“Vance,” she whispered.
“Vance,” Roman confirmed, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intense, burning clarity. “He framed your father to cover up his own embezzlement scheme. And now, he’s trying to destroy my family’s business to cover his tracks.”
May you like
Roman paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle between them before dropping the real bombshell.
“That’s why I’m here, Sadi,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper. “My father wants to crush him. I want to burn his entire political career to ash. But to do that legally, cleanly, and without starting a full-scale war in the streets of Chicago... I need the original physical ledger from your father’s old desk. And you’re the only person in this city who knows where it is.”
