Young. Early twenties. Intelligent brown eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Chestnut hair pulled into a severe ponytail. Her uniform is neat but worn, apron faded at the creases. Her hand trembles as she places a basket of bread on the table.
“Good evening, sir. My name is Rosemary. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
He orders the cheapest beer.
She does not flinch.
Later, he orders the Emperor’s Cut. Then a glass of a two-thousand-dollar vintage.
The manager explodes. Threats are whispered. Warnings delivered.
Rosemary does not break.
She serves him with dignity.
And when the night ends, she slips him a napkin.
Outside, under a Chicago streetlamp, Jameson unfolds it.
They’re watching you.
The kitchen is not safe.
Check the ledger in Finch’s office.
He’s poisoning the supply chain.
It is not a plea.
It is a declaration of war.
And in that moment, Jameson Blackwood understands something terrifying.
His empire is sick.
And the bravest person in the room is a waitress with worn-out shoes who chose integrity over fear.
The reckoning has begun.
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