Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Dining Room
The leather interior of the black Lincoln Town Car smelled faintly of cedar, espresso, and clean rain.
Karen sat in the front passenger seat, her knees pulled tightly together, her yellow rubber cleaning gloves still clutched in her lap like a shield. She looked down at her hands, where the dark grey silk handkerchief Michael had given her was soaked through with water and tears, smelling faintly of sandalwood cologne.
Outside the tinted window, the streets of Providence in the dead of night slipped past like an abandoned set. Atwells Avenue was desolate, its cobblestone crosswalks glistening beneath the amber halo of sodium streetlights.
Michael drove with a casual, unhurried precision. His left hand rested loosely at nine o'clock on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his dark eyes calmly scanning the road ahead. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up twice, exposing the intricate, dark black ink that swept up his forearm—a crawling motif of iron vines and subtle geometric patterns that vanished into his cuff.
Karen swallowed hard, her throat raw. "Where... where are we going?"
"To Saint Jude’s," Michael said. His voice was low and even, cutting through the hum of the engine.
"It’s three in the morning," Karen whispered, her chest tightening. "The lobby is locked. Nobody is at the front desk until six-thirty."
"They’ll open it," Michael replied. He didn't offer further explanation.
He turned the heavy sedan onto Route 6, heading east toward East Providence. Karen stared out at the asphalt stretching into the dark—the same highway where two years ago, her world had cracked wide open. She closed her eyes, fighting back the wave of exhaustion that threatened to pull her under.
Ten minutes later, the Lincoln pulled into the curved, tree-lined driveway of Saint Jude’s Extended Care Facility. The building was a sprawl of red brick and frosted glass, surrounded by manicured lawns that looked gray under the moon. A single lantern illuminated the glass double doors at the main entrance, where a small white sign read: VISITING HOURS 8:00 AM - 7:00 PM.
Michael shifted the car into park, killed the headlights, but left the engine idling. He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and tapped a five-digit contact code. He held the phone to his ear, staring straight ahead at the lit entrance.
"Dominic," Michael said when the call connected. "Wake up Dr. Vance. Tell him I’m in his parking lot."
A pause. A faint, raspy voice answered over the receiver.
"Tell him he has ten minutes to get to his office before I send two men to his house in Barrington to collect him," Michael added calmly, then ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Karen sat frozen in her seat, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Dr. Vance is the regional director of the facility. He doesn't come here at three AM."
Michael placed his phone on the center console and turned his head to look at her. In the soft green light of the dashboard instruments, his features looked cut from marble.
"When people owe debts, Karen, they operate on unusual schedules," Michael said softly. He reached out, his long fingers picking up her right hand. His touch was firm, cool, and surprisingly careful as he inspected the split knuckles. "You’ve been scrubbing floors with chemical solvent without protective creams."
"The restaurant doesn't supply creams," Karen said, her voice barely audible. "We just get the gloves."
"Hector is an idiot who cares about four cents on a supply invoice," Michael said quietly. "Tomorrow, Hector will no longer manage the schedule."
Karen pulled her hand back slightly, a sudden spike of anxiety piercing her exhaustion. "Are you firing him? Please, I need the job! If you close the kitchen—"
"You aren't going back to that kitchen," Michael interrupted, his eyes holding hers. "Not as a cleaner. Not as number three-seventeen."
Before Karen could process his words, the floodlights over the glass entrance flickered and clicked on, bathing the brick facade in harsh white light. The heavy glass doors swung open, and a tall, balding man in an unbuttoned trench coat over striped pajamas came rushing out into the cold night air, fumbling with a keyring.
It was Dr. Vance. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the chilly breeze.
Michael unbuckled his seatbelt. "Stay here."
"Mr. Marchetti—"
"Stay in the car, Karen. Let me handle the accounts."
He stepped out into the night, closing the heavy door behind him with a solid, muffled thud.
Through the windshield, Karen watched the encounter. She couldn't hear the words, but the visual contrast was stark. Dr. Vance was gesturing nervously, his hands fluttering as he gestured toward the locked doors and pulled a leather ledger from under his coat. Michael stood motionless, his dark hands in his trouser pockets, his posture relaxed, imposing, and absolute.
Michael spoke three brief sentences.
Dr. Vance stopped talking. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes widening in visible panic. He nodded frantically, pulled out a pen, and signed three documents Michael produced from his inner coat pocket.
Michael took the papers, folded them neatly, and slid them back inside his coat. He didn't shake Vance's hand. He simply turned his back on the director and walked back to the Lincoln.
When Michael opened the driver's side door, the crisp night air rushed into the warm cabin. He sat down, pulled a heavy manila folder from the door panel, and handed it across to Karen.
"What is this?" Karen asked, her hands trembling as she took the folder.
"Your mother’s account is settled," Michael said, shifting the car into drive. "The lien held by Curtis Hodge’s firm has been bought out and dissolved. The discharge order for eight AM is canceled."
Karen stared at the thick paper folder. "Settled? How? It was over six thousand dollars..."
"Seven thousand two hundred with Hodge's illegal late fees," Michael corrected smoothly as he turned the car back onto the main road. "It’s cleared. In fact, Saint Jude’s has been informed that Mrs. Delaney will be transferred tomorrow afternoon to the private wing at Rhode Island General."
"Rhode Island General?" Karen felt lightheaded, as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. "That’s... that’s a private neurological research unit. I can't pay for that! I can't pay you back for this!"
Michael turned the steering wheel, bringing the car onto the quiet residential avenue leading toward his own private residence on the East Side.
"I didn't ask you to pay me back, Karen," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. "Curtis Hodge was using my restaurant's roster to target vulnerable staff for debt collection schemes. He thought because you were hidden behind a black line on a schedule, nobody was watching."
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He slowed the car down, stopping in front of a tall iron gate that swung open automatically to reveal a secluded, slate-roofed brick estate surrounded by old oak trees.
"I don't like people hunting in my house," Michael said, his tone dropping into a cold, lethal register. "And starting tonight, Karen, you are under my roof."
