Chapter 3 - The Unseen GuardianThe weeks that followed were the strangest of my life.
The money Mikhail left stayed in a safe beneath the floorboards,
untouched,
as if it were cursed.
However,
the diner began to change in ways I couldn't explain.
The local gang members who used to loiter outside,
harassing my customers,
suddenly vanished.
The city inspector,
who had been threatening to shut me down over minor repairs,
showed up one morning with a bouquet of flowers and a signed permit.
Even the supply trucks,
which usually arrived late and overcharged me,
started delivering the freshest produce at half the price.
I knew it was him.
Mikhail Volkov was "fixing" my life,
and it terrified me.
One Tuesday afternoon,
the bell chimed,
and a familiar face walked in.
It wasn't Mikhail,
but Misha,
dressed in a clean school uniform and carrying a backpack.
A large man in a suit stood by the door,
keeping watch.
"Clara!"
Misha chirped,
climbing onto a stool at the counter.
"Can I have more pie?"
I couldn't help but smile,
my heart melting at the sight of him looking so much happier.
"Of course you can,
Misha."
As he ate,
he told me about his school and his kitten,
which his father had actually let him keep.
"Papa says you’re a saint,"
Misha said between bites of crust.
"He says you’re the only person in Chicago who doesn't want to take something from us."
"I just wanted you to be okay,
honey,"
I said,
wiping a smudge of cinnamon from his cheek.
Suddenly,
the air in the room shifted.
The man at the door tensed,
his hand moving toward his jacket.
A group of three men entered,
looking out of place in their cheap leather jackets and aggressive stares.
They didn't look like Mikhail's men.
They looked like the competition.
"This the place?"
one of them sneered,
looking at Misha.
"The Volkov cub likes to eat here,
huh?"
I felt a surge of protectiveness I hadn't known I possessed.
"Leave,"
I said,
grabbing a heavy rolling pin from under the counter.
The men laughed,
a cold,
ugly sound.
"We’ve got a message for the big man,"
the leader said,
stepping toward Misha.
Before he could take another step,
the front window of the diner shattered.
Not from a rock,
but from a precision shot that hit the table inches from the man's hand.
The screaming started,
but it wasn't from me or Misha.
It was from the men who realized they were surrounded.
From the shadows across the street,
more of Mikhail's men emerged like ghosts.
But it was the man who stepped through the back door who froze the blood in my veins.
Mikhail was there,
his face a mask of absolute fury.
He didn't look at the thugs;
he looked at me.
"I told you,"
he said,
May you like
his voice a low growl.
"Everything is a debt."
