Chapter 4 - The Changing of the Guard
Three weeks passed like a fever dream.
The transformation of Le Petit Palais became the talk of Chicago’s dining scene, though no one quite understood how or why it had happened so quickly.
The gossip columns in the Chicago Tribune reported that Julian Cross had abruptly "resigned due to personal reasons" and had quietly relocated to Miami. Marcus Vance’s real estate firm suffered a sudden, crushing audit by federal regulators, forcing him to liquidate several key properties along the river—properties that were promptly bought up at fire-sale prices by an anonymous holding company based in Delaware.
And at the center of it all was Clara Evans.
She traded her stained server’s apron for tailored charcoal pantsuits and silk blouses. Her dark hair, once pinned up in a quick, messy bun, was styled cleanly over her shoulders. She carried a leather-bound tablet, her days filled with inventory audits, menu redesigns, and staff interviews.
True to her word, Clara hadn't fired the old staff. She had sat down with every single busboy, dishwasher, and line cook, raising their base wages by thirty percent and establishing a health fund.
The effect was instantaneous.
The restaurant, once cold and tense under Julian’s tyrannical thumb, suddenly hummed with warmth and vitality. The staff worked with smiles that reached their eyes. The line cooks poured their hearts into every dish, knowing they were respected.
And every Thursday night at precisely seven o'clock, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb on Michigan Avenue.
Vito would open the door, and Lillian Moretti would walk in, wearing a beautiful new navy blue cashmere coat—a birthday gift from her son—though she still carried her old latch-hook purse.
Clara would personally seat her at the window table.
"Good evening, GM," a deep voice said behind Clara on a crisp Thursday in late November.
Clara turned around, a small smile automatically forming on her lips.
Dominic stood near the host stand. He wore a dark blue suit that fit his massive frame perfectly, his silver-dusted hair catching the light of the crystal chandeliers. He carried a single dark red rose in his hand.
"Mr. Moretti," Clara said, stepping toward him. "You're five minutes early. Your mother is already at her table."
"I know," Dominic said, holding out the rose to her. "The rose isn't for my mother."
Clara froze, looking at the flower, then up into his dark, intense eyes. A faint blush crept up her neck, warming her cheeks.
"Dominic..." she murmured, taking the rose gently by its stem. "You shouldn't."
"I pay myself three hundred dollars an hour to oversee my investments, Miss Evans," Dominic said smoothly, leaning in slightly so only she could hear him above the soft jazz music. "I think I can afford a red rose for my general manager."
"We had an agreement," Clara reminded him, though her fingers stroked the soft velvet petals of the flower. "Professional boundaries."
"Our agreement was that I wouldn't run contraband through your wine cellar," Dominic corrected her, a rare, wicked flash of humor in his eyes. "It said nothing about taking you to dinner."
"I'm working," she said, gesturing toward her tablet. "The 8:00 PM seating is completely full."
"Then eat with me after the doors close," he said quietly. "One hour. No talk about your budget, no talk about my... logistics. Just you and me."
Clara looked into his eyes—eyes that could terrify a hardened mobster into submission, yet held a softness when looking at her that made her knees feel strangely weak. Over the last three weeks, she had watched him come in every week. She had seen how he treated his mother, how he paid for his meals despite owning the building, and how he stood near the entrance, silently watching over Clara like a guardian shield.
Before she could answer, the front doors burst open.
A cold gust of wind blew into the foyer, followed by three men in dark leather coats.
The leader was a sharp-featured man in his late thirties with a pitted face and a thick golden chain hanging outside his collar. He didn't look like the usual Le Petit Palais clientele. He looked like trouble—the kind of trouble that grew up on the West Side and smelled like cheap bourbon and gunpowder.
Clara’s professional instincts kicked in immediately. She stepped forward, putting herself between the newcomers and the dining room.
"Good evening," Clara said politely, her voice calm and smooth. "Welcome to Le Petit Palais. Do you have a reservation?"
The sharp-featured man sneered, his eyes sliding over her tailored suit before looking past her toward Dominic.
"Look at this," the man sneered, speaking in a raspy, gravelly voice. "The great Dominic Moretti, sitting in a fancy restaurant playing house with the waiters."
Dominic didn't move. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't even take his hands out of his suit pockets.
"Nicky," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy register that made the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. "You're on the wrong side of the river."
Nicky stepped closer, ignoring Clara entirely. "The Commission heard you bought this place, Dominic. They heard you’ve gone soft. Spending your money on soup for your old lady and buying silk suits for little diner girls."
Clara’s eyes narrowed. "Sir, I must ask you to leave. You are disturbing our guests."
Nicky looked down at Clara, his face twisting into a nasty smirk. He raised a hand, pointing a thick, scarred finger inches from her nose. "Shut your mouth, sweetheart. The adults are talking."
He never got to finish the sentence.
Dominic moved so fast it looked like a blur.
Before Nicky’s finger could move back an inch, Dominic’s right hand shot out, catching Nicky by the throat and slamming him backward against the heavy oak front door with a crash that rattled the glass panes.
Nicky’s two companions instantly reached inside their leather jackets, but before they could clear their holsters, Vito and another of Dominic’s men materialized from the shadows near the bar, the cold steel barrels of two suppressed pistols pressed firmly against the backs of the men’s necks.
"Don't," Vito whispered pleasantly into the ear of the man on the left. "It makes a terrible mess on the rug, and Miss Evans hates cleaning blood."
Nicky was gasping for air, his feet dangling two inches off the floor as Dominic held him against the door with one hand, his arm as rigid as an iron bar.
"Listen to me very carefully, Nicky," Dominic whispered, leaning close to the man’s purple face. "This restaurant belongs to Miss Evans. If you ever walk through these doors again, if you ever speak to her again, or if you even think the name of my mother... I will personally throw you into the Chicago River with fifty pounds of rebar tied to your ankles."
He let go.
Nicky crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, clutching his red throat.
"Get them out of here, Vito," Dominic commanded smoothly, wiping his hand with a linen napkin he took from a nearby table. "And make sure they leave their coats outside."
Vito and the other guard dragged the three gasping men out into the snow, shutting the heavy brass doors behind them.
Dominic turned back to Clara. His breathing wasn't even elevated. He smoothed the lapels of his suit coat and looked at her, his dark eyes searching her face for any sign of fear or retreat.
"I apologize for the disruption, Miss Evans," Dominic said softly. "I told you I would keep the monsters away from the door."
Clara looked at the brass doors, then back at Dominic.
May you like
She didn't look afraid. She took a slow, deep breath, adjusted her suit jacket, and looked at the red rose still held in her hand.
"Your one hour dinner, Dominic," Clara said, looking up at him with a spark of dark, resolute light in her eyes. "Make it two hours. And you're buying the wine."
