Chapter 1 - THE PURPLE STARS
My mother worked seventy-seven days without being paid.
Her boss bought a Porsche.
We started skipping dinner.
So at four and a half years old, I walked past seven armed men and asked the most dangerous man in Chicago why nobody had made David Sterling pay her.
My name is Rory Carter.
And yes, the half mattered.
The night before everything changed, I woke up because I heard Mom crying in our kitchen.
She was trying to be quiet.
That was how I knew it was bad.
My mother, Emily Carter, never cried loudly.
She cried with one hand over her mouth because she believed sadness was another bill she couldn't afford to let anyone else pay.
“Please, Mr. Sterling,” she whispered into the phone.
I crawled out of bed and sat in the hallway.
“It’s been eleven weeks. I’ve worked every shift you asked me to work.”
A man answered through the speaker.
David Sterling.
Owner of Sterling’s Bistro.
Owner of three restaurants.
Owner of a brand-new silver Porsche.
Owner, apparently, of my mother’s patience.
“You’ll get your money when accounting clears it.”
“You said that last week.”
“And the week before.”
“Exactly.”
There was silence.
Then David laughed.
Not a funny laugh.
A bored one.
“You should be grateful you still have a job, Emily.”
Mom's shoulders dropped.
“I need groceries.”
“Not my problem.”
“My daughter—”
“Good night, Emily.”
The call ended.
Mom stared at her phone.
Then she opened the refrigerator.
There was half a carton of milk.
Two eggs.
Mustard.
And one apple.
She cut the apple in half.
She put one half in a plastic bag for my breakfast.
Then she ate nothing.
I went back to bed pretending I hadn't seen.
But I had.
The next morning, our babysitter canceled.
Mom brought me to Sterling’s Bistro.
“Stay in the office.”
“I will.”
“Don't wander.”
“I won't.”
“Rory.”
I looked up.
She crouched.
“Promise.”
I crossed two fingers behind my back.
“Promise.”
Mom kissed my forehead and hurried toward the kitchen.
I waited twelve minutes.
Then I opened her desk drawer.
Inside was a folded work log.
Every shift she had worked.
Every double.
Every late closing.
Every Sunday she should have been home reading me dinosaur books.
At the bottom she'd written:
11 WEEKS UNPAID
TOTAL OWED: $5,430.30
I had added purple stars beside certain dates.
Mom had never asked why.
I tucked the paper into my red hoodie.
Then I slipped into the restaurant.
Everybody in Chicago knew who sat at the back table every Tuesday.
Vincent Kane.
People called him a businessman when cameras were around.
They called him other things when cameras weren't.
Even children knew his name.
Mom once told my neighbor that Vincent Kane was dangerous.
But she also said something else.
“He keeps his word.”
At four and a half, that seemed more important.
I walked toward his table.
One guard stepped forward.
Then another.
A third man reached inside his jacket.
“Stop.”
I kept walking.
“Kid.”
I kept walking.
A huge man blocked me.
I went around him.
Another grabbed my shoulder.
“Hey.”
A voice came from the table.
“Let her go.”
Everybody froze.
Vincent Kane sat beneath a brass light, dressed in a dark charcoal suit.
He looked younger than I expected.
Maybe forty.
Maybe one hundred.
Adults were hard to measure.
His eyes were gray.
Not mean.
Just impossible to lie to.
He looked at me.
“Are you lost?”
“No.”
“Looking for your mother?”
“No.”
“Then why are you walking toward me?”
“Because you're Vincent Kane.”
One of his men coughed.
Vincent leaned back.
“You sure?”
“You’re the only person nobody laughs around.”
His eyebrow moved.
“My mom says that means you’re the real boss.”
Nobody smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Rory Carter.”
“How old?”
“Four and a half.”
“Important half?”
“Very.”
A man beside him almost laughed.
Vincent silenced him with one glance.
“Does your mother know you're here?”
“She thinks I'm in the bathroom.”
His mouth twitched.
“You passed seven guards.”
“Six,” one man muttered.
“Seven.”
“Kid, there are six.”
I pointed behind him.
“The guy pretending to read the newspaper.”
Everyone turned.
A man near the entrance slowly lowered his newspaper.
Vincent stared at him.
Then at me.
“Seven.”
I pulled Mom’s work log out.
Three guards tensed.
Vincent raised a finger.
They stopped.
I flattened the page on his table.
Vincent read it.
His expression changed.
“What is this?”
“My mom’s money.”
He looked at the total.
Then at the purple marks.
“What are the stars?”
“Mine.”
“What do they mean?”
Across the dining room, David Sterling was standing beside the bar.
He had just walked in.
He was laughing with two men.
His Porsche keys spun around one finger.
Vincent noticed.
Then looked at me again.
“The stars, Rory.”
I pointed to one.
“They're the nights we didn't eat dinner.”
The room went silent.
Vincent stared at the page.
Then he pushed back his chair.
Across the restaurant, David finally noticed us.
His smile vanished.
The Porsche keys fell from his hand.
Vincent stood.
And that was the moment my mother came running from the kitchen.
“RORY!”
She grabbed me.
Then she saw who stood beside me.
Her face turned white.
“Oh, God.”
Vincent folded her work log.
Slipped it into his jacket.
And started walking toward David Sterling.
David bent down for his keys.
Vincent stopped in front of him.
“Leave those on the floor.”
David slowly straightened.
“Vincent.”
“Eleven weeks?”
David's face tightened.
“You don't understand.”
Vincent glanced at me.
Then at Mom.
“No.”
His voice became colder.
“I think I'm beginning to.”
David swallowed.
Then he said the one thing that made Vincent Kane stop walking.
May you like
“Emily hasn't told you who really owns this restaurant.”
And suddenly, my mother's hand began to shake.
