Chapter 2 - The King of ChicagoThe silence that followed Mikhail Volkov’s words was heavy,
suffocating the sound of the rain outside.
His men stood like statues by the door,
their hands hovering near their waistbands,
their faces devoid of any emotion.
I felt a cold chill run down my spine,
but I stood my ground,
keeping myself between the man and the boy.
"He was hungry,"
I said,
my voice steadier than I felt.
"And he was shivering."
Mikhail stepped closer,
the scent of expensive cologne and ozone clinging to him.
He didn't look like a common criminal;
he looked like a king who had lost his crown and found it in the mud.
He looked down at Misha,
who had climbed out of the booth and was now standing by my side.
"Misha,"
Mikhail said,
his voice softening just a fraction.
"Go to the car with Boris."
The boy looked at me one last time,
reaching out to touch my hand.
"Thank you for the pie,
Clara,"
he whispered,
before being ushered out into the night by a mountain of a man.
Now,
it was just me,
the cook hiding in the kitchen,
and the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Mikhail looked around my diner,
his eyes taking in the peeling wallpaper,
the flickering lights,
and the "Final Notice" bills piled near the register.
"This place is a ruin,"
he remarked,
running a gloved finger along the counter.
"It’s my ruin,"
I snapped,
the fear finally giving way to a spark of defiance.
"And it was warm enough for your son."
He turned back to me,
an unreadable expression crossing his sharp features.
"My son tells me you asked for no payment."
"I don't charge children for being lost,"
I replied.
He reached into his coat,
and for a moment,
I thought he was reaching for a weapon.
Instead,
he pulled out a thick envelope and placed it on the counter.
"That is for the meal,"
he said.
"And that is for the kindness you showed a Volkov."
I didn't touch it.
"I don't want your money,
Mr. Volkov."
He tilted his head,
intrigued.
"Everyone wants something,
Clara."
"I want to know he's safe,"
I said.
"And I want you to leave my diner before your presence brings the kind of trouble I can't scrub off the floor."
A small,
dark smirk played at the corners of his lips.
"You have spirit,"
he murmured.
"A rare thing in this neighborhood."
He turned to leave,
but stopped at the door.
"The debt is not settled,
little bird."
"Kindness is not a debt,"
I called out after him.
He didn't look back as he stepped into the rain.
"In my world,"
his voice drifted back,
"everything is a debt."
I watched the SUVs disappear into the darkness,
my heart hammering against my ribs.
When I finally opened the envelope,
my breath hitched.
There was enough cash inside to pay off the diner’s mortgage three times over.
But as I looked at the money,
I felt a strange sense of dread.
I had fed the son of a wolf,
May you like
and now,
the wolf knew exactly where I lived.
