Chapter 2 - The First Assignment
The industrial warehouse district along the Chicago River was shrouded in a thick, sulfurous fog by eight o'clock that evening.
June backed her worn white Ford catering van into the loading bay of a renovated brick complex that bore no sign, no street number, and no lighting other than a single blue industrial lamp buzzing above the steel overhead door.
Before her engine had even come to a full stop, two men in identical dark suits stepped out from the shadow of the brick wall. One of them pulled open the driver's side door before she could even reach for the handle.
“Out,” the man said flatly. His face looked as though it had been carved out of raw gray soapstone.
“Careful with the doors,” June snapped, stepping down onto the damp concrete without showing a trace of fear. “I have four double-bottomed stockpots of slow-braised short ribs in the back. If you tilt them past fifteen degrees, the jus will ruin my transport insulation, and your boss will be eating dry meat.”
The two guards blinked, caught entirely off guard by her tone. They looked at each other, then immediately softened their grip on the rear doors, opening them with extraordinary care.
Inside the warehouse, the space opened up into a cavernous, immaculately restored private hall. Exposed brick walls were illuminated by warm, concealed strip lights, and a long mahogany table capable of seating thirty men dominated the center of the hardwood floor. At the far end stood a commercial-grade stainless steel kitchen setup—gas burners, warming ovens, and prep tables—that looked brand new.
Standing by the far edge of the mahogany table, reviewing a paper manifest, was Cormac. He had removed his heavy overcoat, wearing only his suit vest and crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
June pushed her heavy metal transport cart into the room, her rubber work boots squeaking against the polished floor.
“You’re late by four minutes, Mrs. Holloway,” Cormac remarked without looking up from his papers.
“The city was paving the bridge on North Avenue, Mr. Riley,” June replied, wheeling the cart straight past him toward the kitchen line. “And if you want your meat tender, you don't speed over potholed roads with forty gallons of hot broth.”
Cormac set his papers down, turning his head to watch her.
June didn't waste a single movement. She pulled her hair back into a tight, professional bun, pinned it with two steel clips, tied a clean white cotton apron around her waist, and immediately began lighting the gas burners under her warming pans.
Her hands moved with the effortless, instinctive grace of a master craftsman. For twenty-three years, she had been the unseen engine behind Holloway’s Corner. While her late husband Ray talked with the neighborhood regulars at the counter, June was the one who managed the three-tier prep schedules, butchered the whole loins to cut costs, balanced the chemical ratios in the dishwashers, and ensured that two hundred meals left the pass every single day without a single plate returning rejected.
Within fifteen minutes, the vast, cold warehouse was filled with the rich, intoxicating aroma of roasted garlic, seared beef, fresh thyme, and reduction of red wine.
The heavy double doors at the front of the hall swung open with a dull thud.
A dozen men filed into the room. They weren't low-level street thugs; these were senior operational heads—district commanders, union liaisons, and private logistical managers who oversaw the sprawling financial interests of Cormac’s network. They carried heavy leather briefcases, their faces drawn with the sharp, nervous tension of men who lived their lives under constant surveillance.
They sat down at the mahogany table without speaking, their eyes darting nervously toward Cormac, who took his place at the head of the table.
June began plating.
She didn't use decorative squeeze bottles or pincers. She served deep, generous porcelain bowls of heavy, tender braised beef over creamed garlic potatoes, accompanied by roasted root vegetables that had been caramelized in real butter.
She carried the first two bowls out herself, placing one directly in front of Cormac and the second in front of a broad, red-faced man seated to his left who looked ready to chew through his own leather belt.
The red-faced man stared down at the food, then glanced up at June with a sneer.
“What is this home-style junk?” the man grunted loudly. “Where’s the catering company from the hotel? I thought we were getting steak and lobster.”
The entire room went deathly silent.
June stopped in her tracks, her tray resting against her hip. She turned her head slowly, looking the red-faced man directly in the eye with an expression of cold, professional disgust.
“That meat was braised for seven hours in a bone broth made from scratch yesterday morning, sir,” June said, her voice carrying easily through the cavernous room. “If you prefer rubbery lobster that was frozen in a shipping box three weeks ago and cooked by a nineteen-year-old kid in a hotel microwave, you are welcome to leave my dining room and find a hot dog stand on the corner.”
Two of the younger men at the far end of the table gasped quietly.
The red-faced man’s face flushed a deep, dangerous purple. He pushed his chair back, his heavy hand coming down hard on the mahogany surface. “Who the hell let this old woman in here—?”
“Sit down, Paulie,” Cormac said.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it stopped the larger man instantly.
Cormac picked up his silver fork, cut off a portion of the short rib—which fell apart under the slightest pressure—and brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his expression entirely unreadable.
The whole room waited, nobody breathing.
Cormac set his fork down, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked straight at June.
“The potatoes need a fraction more salt,” Cormac noted softly. “Otherwise, it is the best meal that has been served in this building in five years.”
He looked down the table at his men, his voice dropping into an icy register.
“Eat your food. We have three hours of ledger reviews before midnight.”
May you like
Paulie swallowed hard, quickly pulled his chair back in, picked up his fork, and took a large bite. A second later, the anger vanished from his eyes, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. He began eating with frantic speed, not saying another word.
June turned on her heel and walked back to her kitchen line, a faint, razor-thin smile touching the corner of her lips.
