Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Past
By three o'clock the following afternoon, the Velvet Room looked completely different under the cold, bright glare of daylight.
Without the dim amber lamps, the jazz music, and the low hum of wealthy patrons drinking thirty-dollar cocktails, the lounge exposed its flaws. The velvet upholstery on the perimeter booths was fraying at the edges. The brass rails along the bar were tarnished, and the air smelled of stale beer and floor cleaner.
I stood near the main register, wearing a crisp charcoal blazer and slacks, a clipboard in my hand.
The entire remaining staff—eight servers, four bartenders, three kitchen staff, and two porters—were gathered in a half-circle before me.
The atmosphere was tense.
News of Greg’s violent dismissal and Leonard’s firing had spread through the hospitality grapevine like wildfire overnight. Rumors had inflated the story into a bloodbath: some claimed Greg had been carried out in handcuffs, others said Damian Mercer had personally broken his arm in the alleyway.
They looked at me with a mixture of shock, suspicion, and cautious curiosity. To them, I was the girl who had been shaking cocktails twenty-four hours ago, now holding the master set of keys and the shift roster.
“Let’s make this simple,” I said, my voice echoing in the empty, high-ceilinged room. “The Velvet Room is under new ownership. The old management practices are gone. There will be no unrecorded voids, no altered shift logs, and no preferential treatment based on personal relationships.”
A bartender named Marcus—a tall guy with slicked-back hair who had been Greg’s primary drinking buddy on the night shift—folded his arms across his chest.
“And what happens if a regular customer comes in asking for the comps Greg used to give them?” Marcus asked, a faint edge of challenge in his voice.
“You tell them the menu prices are fixed by Mercer Hospitality,” I replied without hesitation. “If they have a problem, you bring them to me. You do not issue free drinks to protect your tips.”
Marcus smirked slightly. “And who made you the expert on corporate policy, Lena? You’ve been managing for six hours.”
Before I could answer, the heavy front doors swung open.
The light from the street was blocked by two figures.
It wasn't Damian Mercer.
It was a man in his late fifties, dressed in an ill-fitting brown trench coat over a wrinkled suit. He had thinning gray hair, small, watery eyes, and a thick neck that bulged over his collar. Behind him stood two men built like brick walls, wearing heavy leather jackets and carrying the distinct, intimidating air of neighborhood enforcement.
The room went dead silent.
I recognized the man in the trench coat instantly.
It was Frank Thornton. Greg’s father.
And more importantly, the head of the local teamsters’ union chapter that controlled the food and beverage distribution routes across the downtown district.
Frank walked slowly down the center aisle, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. His expression was dark, his face twisted into a mask of bitter, vengeful rage.
“Which one of you is Lena?” he growled, his eyes scanning the lineup of nervous staff members.
Marcus instantly took a step back, aligning himself with the other bartenders, leaving me standing alone near the center of the bar.
I didn't step back. I held my clipboard firmly, my posture rigid, though my heart was pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“I’m Lena,” I said, stepping forward. “Can I help you, Mr. Thornton?”
Frank stopped three feet from me, his small eyes locking onto my face with absolute hatred.
“You ruined my boy’s life,” Frank snarled, his voice thick with phlegm and anger. “He’s sitting in a hospital room with a broken collarbone and a ruined reputation because a low-life bartender decided to play the victim.”
I felt a cold shock run through me. A broken collarbone? Damian Mercer’s men had clearly dealt with Greg after he left the building last night.
“Your son was drunk on duty, falsified company records, and physically assaulted me on the floor,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm and steady. “He was terminated by the owner.”
“I don't give a damn about the owner!” Frank roared, taking a step closer, his two heavy-set men closing in behind him. “This is my city! My trucks bring the liquor into this building! My boys haul the trash out of that alley! You tell that piece of trash Mercer that unless my son is reinstated with a full public apology by five o'clock today, not a single bottle of alcohol crosses this threshold again!”
The staff gasped softly behind me. A liquor freeze meant immediate closure.
May you like
Frank leaned in closer, his sour breath washing over my face.
“And as for you, little girl,” Frank whispered, his eyes narrowing into venomous slits. “You better watch your step when you walk to your car tonight. Mistakes happen in dark alleys.”
