Chapter 1 - THREE HUNDRED DOLLARSRain had entered Nora Davis’s left boot somewhere around Forty-Second Street.
By the time she reached L’Osteria, two of her toes had gone numb.
Every step made a wet sound inside the cracked leather.
She kept walking.
Three hundred dollars.
That number repeated with every block.
Three hundred.
Enough to restore electricity.
Enough to pay Mrs. Higgins part of what Nora owed for watching Sam.
Enough for groceries.
Enough to breathe for perhaps ten days.
Gregory Davis—no relation despite the shared surname—had fired her three days earlier by text.
Your services are no longer required.
Nothing else.
No final wages.
No explanation.
Nora called seven times.
No answer.
So she went to the restaurant.
The host looked at her wet jacket.
“The delivery entrance is behind the building.”
“I’m here for Gregory.”
“Mr. Davis is occupied.”
“So am I.”
She walked around him.
The confidence lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
Inside, L’Osteria smelled like everything Nora had spent the day pretending she did not want.
Butter.
Garlic.
Warm bread.
Steak.
Wine.
Her stomach tightened so violently she almost stopped.
She had eaten half a piece of Sam’s abandoned toast yesterday morning.
That was all.
Gregory stood beside a private booth pouring wine for four men.
“Nora?”
Terror.
That was the surprising part.
Not irritation.
Not anger.
Fear.
“I need my money.”
His eyes moved toward the men.
“Not here.”
“Here.”
“You’re making a scene.”
“You owe me three hundred dollars.”
One of the men turned slightly.
Gregory saw.
“Go outside.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“You fired me before rent and kept a week of wages.”
Gregory stepped closer.
“You were paid cash.”
“I still worked.”
“You broke dishes.”
“You deducted them.”
“You missed hours.”
“Because you changed schedules without telling me.”
His jaw tightened.
“Leave.”
Nora reached toward the tray stand because the floor had begun shifting.
Her fingers missed.
The stand fell.
Glasses shattered.
Red wine spread across the marble.
Her knee struck first.
Then shoulder.
Her bag opened.
Wallet.
Utility notice.
Pawnshop receipt.
Sam’s bottle.
Eleven dollars.
The bottle rolled slowly through wine.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
It stopped beside a polished black shoe.
Nora looked upward.
A man at Gregory’s private booth watched her.
Dark charcoal suit.
Still expression.
Then darkness.
When she woke, she was on a leather sofa.
Gregory’s office.
The stranger sat opposite her with Nora’s bag on his lap.
“My bag.”
“You fainted.”
“I noticed.”
“You need food.”
“I need my bag.”
She stood.
The room tilted.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“You are going to crack your skull.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“What time?”
She saw the clock.
6:20.
Panic replaced dizziness.
“Give me the bag.”
The man held it out of reach.
“Who sent you?”
“What?”
“To L’Osteria.”
“I sent myself.”
“You walked into a private dining room asking Gregory for money.”
“Because he owes me money.”
The stranger studied her.
“My name is Ethan Hayes.”
Nothing.
Apparently he expected recognition.
Nora almost enjoyed disappointing him.
“Okay.”
His mouth nearly moved.
Then he opened her bag.
“Don’t.”
Electric bill.
Pawn receipt.
Wallet.
Bottle.
His eyes stayed on the bottle.
“You have a child.”
“A son.”
“How old?”
“Two.”
“And Gregory owes you three hundred dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I worked.”
The office door opened.
Gregory entered.
“Mr. Hayes, I can handle this.”
Ethan did not look at him.
“Did she work here?”
“Temporarily.”
“Did you pay her?”
Silence.
Nora stood.
“You kept my final wages.”
Gregory’s face changed.
“You walked into my dining room filthy and destroyed hundreds of dollars in glassware.”
“I collapsed because I haven’t eaten.”
“That is not my problem.”
“You still owe me.”
Gregory laughed.
“You’re lucky I don’t call the police.”
Ethan stood.
The office suddenly felt smaller.
“Why haven’t you paid her?”
Gregory’s voice softened.
“This woman is unstable.”
“I’m hungry,” Nora said. “There’s a difference.”
Ethan looked at her.
Then Gregory.
“Pay her.”
“What?”
“The three hundred.”
“This is a personnel issue.”
“If she is personnel, you owe payroll documentation.”
Silence.
“If she isn’t personnel, you allowed an unidentified woman to work inside your commercial kitchen.”
Gregory stared.
Ethan waited.
The bully finally moved.
He opened the office safe.
Counted bills.
Threw three hundred dollars onto the desk.
Nora reached.
Ethan stopped her.
“Count it.”
She glared.
Then counted.
Three hundred exactly.
She shoved the bills into her wallet.
Then one narrow strip of thermal paper slid from the pawn receipt.
Nora frowned.
Not hers.
Ethan picked it up.
Gregory went white.
Ethan unfolded it.
Names.
Numbers.
Nora recognized two.
Luis.
Mei.
Gregory lunged.
“That is restaurant property.”
Ethan moved it away.
Too late.
Fear had revealed value.
Nora looked at him.
“What is it?”
Ethan read another line.
Then another.
Amounts beside workers’ names.
Adjusted.
Withheld.
Unpaid.
Ethan looked at Gregory.
Then at Nora.
“How many people did he pay in cash?”
She swallowed.
“Maybe fifteen.”
Gregory started speaking rapidly.
“Uniform fees. Advances. Adjustments.”
Ethan ignored him.
“How many, Nora?”
“Maybe fifteen.”
Ethan folded the strip.
His voice became very quiet.
“Gregory.”
The manager looked toward him.
May you like
“How much money have you been stealing from people who couldn’t afford to fight you?”
And Nora suddenly understood that her three hundred dollars might be the smallest number in the room.
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