Chapter 7 - The Shadows Stir
Two weeks before our scheduled grand opening, Greg Sterling was released on bail.
A wealthy silent partner—a corrupt commercial land speculator named Victor Rossi, who had long used Greg’s restaurant to launder illegal gambling receipts—had posted the collateral. Greg was placed under home confinement with an ankle monitor, awaiting trial.
I was sitting in my new office late on a Thursday evening, reviewing the final wine order, when my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
I hesitated, then swiped to accept. “Mark Davis.”
There was a heavy, wet breathing on the other end of the line.
“You look comfortable in my chair, Davis,” a raspy, slurred voice murmured.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Greg?”
“You think you took everything from me?” Greg’s voice dropped into a terrifying, guttural whisper. He was clearly intoxicated, his words thick with malice. “You think that billionaire saint can protect you forever? Vance leaves town next week for his Tokyo summit. And when he’s gone... you’re going to find out what happens to boys who play with matches.”
“Greg, listen to me,” I said, keeping my voice level while quietly hitting the record button on my computer screen. “You are facing federal charges. If you call this number again, or come anywhere near my family, I will have your bail revoked in ten minutes.”
A dry, rattling laugh echoed through the receiver.
“Bail? Prison? You think I care about prison, Mark? My life is over. My reputation is gone. My wife filed for divorce yesterday. I have nothing left in this world except my hate for you.”
The line went dead.
I sat in the dark office, the silence of the empty restaurant pressing in on me like a suffocating blanket. Outside, the autumn rain beat against the large bay windows. Across the street, the boarded-up windows of the burned apartment building looked like black, hollow eyes watching me.
I immediately called David Cho, Arthur’s chief legal counsel.
“He’s violating his pre-trial conditions by contacting you,” Cho said calmly, though a note of sharp irritation edged his tone. “I’m filing an emergency motion with Judge Harrison right now. The police will conduct a compliance check at his registered residence within the hour.”
Thirty minutes later, Cho called back.
His voice was no longer calm.
“Mark, where are you?”
“I’m at the restaurant. Why?”
“Get out of there immediately. The police arrived at Sterling’s residence. The ankle monitor was cut off and left sitting on his kitchen counter next to an empty bottle of bourbon. Greg is gone. And so is his car.”
My blood turned to ice water. “Emily. Kevin.”
“I’ve already dispatched two armed Vance security units to your home,” Cho said urgently. “They will be at your house in four minutes. But Mark—you need to lock the restaurant and leave right now. Do not wait.”
I shoved my phone into my pocket, grabbed my coat, and ran toward the front entrance.
The restaurant was vast in the darkness, illuminated only by the emergency exit signs casting a pale green glow over the newly installed oak tables and leather booths. The scent of fresh paint and polished wood filled the air. We had poured everything into this place. It was our sanctuary, our future, our redemption.
As I reached the front vestibule, I smelled it.
It wasn't fresh paint.
It wasn't polished wood.
It was the distinct, choking stench of high-grade gasoline.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
From the darkened kitchen hallway, the sound of glass breaking shattered the quiet. Then, a low, metallic scraping sound—like a heavy metal can being dragged across concrete.
I reached behind the bar, my fingers wrapping around the heavy, cold brass handle of a decorative cocktail muddler—the only weapon within arm's reach.
“Greg?” I called out, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a battering ram.
A figure emerged from the kitchen corridor.
He was illuminated by the eerie green light of the exit sign. Greg Sterling looked like a ghost that had crawled out of a fresh grave. His clothes were soaked with rain, his hair matted against his skull, his eyes wild, bloodshot, and sunken. In his right hand, he carried a five-gallon red plastic jerrycan. In his left hand, he held a heavy brass Zippo lighter.
Gasoline was dripping from his sleeves, leaving dark, shimmering puddles across the brand-new white oak flooring.
May you like
“Welcome to the grand opening, Mark,” Greg whispered, a manic grin stretching across his haggard face. “Let’s see if you can save this building twice.”
***
