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Frank won't forgive me if I return empty-handed.
The hostess eyes me as I loiter near the restrooms, her fake smile almost convincing. She gives me a once-over, her gaze lingering on my glossy stilettos.
In the dimly lit corridor, I spot a door marked "Staff Only." I smirk at the sign.
I weave through the hallway. The name plate on the door at the end says Chef Jacob Smith. He must be inside. Perfect.
Before I can even consider knocking, I hear muffled but brash voices, indicating that he isn't alone. The door, slightly ajar, offers a fairly good view.
Take the shot, Ella.
Despite my initial hesitation, the pull of a ‘breaking story’ wins, and I gently push it open just enough to peek inside.
To my shock, Mr. Smith is on his knees, restrained by two imposing figures. He’s still wearing his blue apron, so I can make out that he’s the owner. The two men holding him down are facing the entrance. One of them has a shaved head, covered in tattoos, and he's all brawn, gripping Mr. Smith’s shoulders with arms that look like they bench press trucks. The other guy is a bit leaner but no less daunting, with fingers full of gold skull rings clasping Mr. Smith’s wrists. Certainly not the friendly, neighborhood bouncer types.
Mr. Smith is talking, more like pleading, to another big guy.
Robbers? No, too well suited for that, and they would cut to the chase instead of having a conversation. The last thing I had expected was to stumble in on a mobster movie scene.
I dig for my phone in the bag, eager to record it all.
My eyes fixate on the big guy, his back turned to the door. I squint, attempting to catch a glimpse of his features. Tall, broad shoulders, a well-tailored black suit–brown curls neatly set. Even without seeing his face, I can tell that he has the authority in the room. I lean closer as he resumes talking. He leans in, his voice low and coarse. Mr. Smith, still on his knees, is sweating bullets.
“You should have come to me, Jacob,” he lurks.
“I told you! Please! His men would have killed me if I hadn’t paid! I need more time to put together the money,” Mr. Smith begs.
"I've been lenient and you have made me regret it," the tall man taps his fingers on the wooden desk, leaning in closer to the petrified owner.
"Please, I just need a bit more time! Business has been slow, but I swear, I'll get you the money!" Mr. Smith tries to flinch but the men holler at him.
"You've had enough time. You know the rules," the man states.
Mr. Smith’s eyes dart to the hulking guys on either side of him, clearly regretting the decisions that led him to this point.
"I've already paid them the protection money. His men are merciless. I beg you! Give me a week, just a week! And I'll have your money!"
The tall guy leans back again as he considers, then he answers with a flat, disappointed, voice, “A week, Jacob. But remember, every day comes with interest. And if you don’t have the payment ready, you go down with this fancy place of yours.”
“Please, no!”
“And, because of your tardiness, a lesson is in order," the man adds.
My fingers tremble as I record the ominous exchange. I feel my legs go numb, unable to carry my weight.
I can feel my heart practically dropping with their words.
"Do what you have to,” the man nods to his henchmen.
A shiver runs down my spine.
The two enforcers of their boss’s will, tighten their grip on Mr. Smith. His face is etched with desperation, beads of sweat mixing with the grime of fear. I don’t feel angry at him anymore. I feel sorry.
I feel scared.
The first blow lands—a heavy punch to his gut. He recoils, gasping for breath, his hands instinctively clutching his body. I wince, but immediately cup my mouth with one hand.
The second blow follows across his face, the force of it causing his head to snap to the side. A crimson stream trickles down, staining his beard and dripping onto the marble below. There is an imprint of golden skull rings on Mr. Smith’s face now.
