Chapter 3

Vivian's POV

They came at me like a wall: Big Mike in the middle, Little Mike and the dishwasher on either side.

My pepper spray was already in my hand. I caught Little Mike full in the face, then Big Mike, then the dishwasher. They reeled back, swearing, clawing at their eyes.

Behind me, Leo cried out.

I turned. Chelsea had him by the collar. She shoved him down until his knees hit the tile.

"On your knees, you little brat. You gonna come mooch in my restaurant again?"

Leo didn't fight. He never fought anymore. His eyes filled, and he held it in.

"No, ma'am," he whispered.

I'd turned my back on three men for one second. That was all it took.

Big Mike charged blind and hit me from behind like a falling refrigerator. I went down hard, cheek first. Before I could get my hands under me, Little Mike was on my legs and two of the cousins had each pinned an arm flat to the floor. My purse went flying. My phone skidded under a booth. The sonogram slid out and landed face up by the bar, two gray beans under a stranger's shoe.

A busboy froze with a tray of glasses. Nobody came.

"I'm sorry!" Leo was sobbing now, really sobbing, the way he hadn't even at the funeral. "I won't ask for more bread ever again! Please let my aunt go! She's having babies—you're going to hurt her!"

The other three dropped to their knees beside him. Nobody made them. They just did what their big brother did.

"Please," Lily wailed. "There's two babies in there! Twins, like me and Ollie!"

Max yanked at his wrist and held up the gold bracelet.

"It's real gold. Nonna gave it to me. You can have it for the bread. Just let her go. Please."

Chelsea took it. Turned it over. Snorted.

"Gold-plated junk from Canal Street." She flicked it into the trash can by the host stand. Then she put her palm flat on Max's chest and pushed. He fell back hard against a chair leg and gasped.

"Don't you touch him!" I screamed. "Put a hand on that child again and I swear to God—"

Big Mike dropped his whole weight between my shoulder blades. My forehead cracked against the tile.

White light. A high whine in both ears. And then, low in my stomach, a cramp—sharp, like a fist closing.

"You know who her husband is?" Big Mike's breath was sour coffee on my neck. "Adrian Cole. Cole Holdings. You picked a fight with the wrong family, sweetheart."

The cramp came again, and again, until it wasn't coming and going anymore. It was just there.

Nine weeks. Two gray beans on a printout. Please. Not this. Please.

Chelsea crouched beside my head. My mother's ring swung on its chain, an inch from my eyes.

"Here's how you walk out of here," she said. "You pay. You apologize, on your knees. And so you never forget it—" she smiled "—you eat out of the slop bins. All of you. Every bite."

Two more cousins hauled the gray bus tubs out from the dish station: plate scrapings from the entire dinner rush. Cold pasta, chewed crusts, sour marinara, coffee grounds. The smell rolled across the dining room. Somebody gagged.

"If we eat it," Leo said, "will you let her go?"

"Depends how good you are."

He looked at me. Then at the bin. I knew that look. He'd worn it for six months after the funeral, as if being very good and very quiet could keep anyone else from leaving.

Then my nephew—my careful boy, who washed his hands three times before every meal—plunged both hands into the slop and stuffed it into his mouth.

"I'm eating. I'm eating. Please let her go."

Max scrambled up and did the same. Then the twins, crying, with their small fists.

The birthday table had gone silent. But the phones stayed up. Every single one.

"Don't!" I thrashed against the hands holding me down. "Don't eat that! Leo, stop! Please, baby!"

Chelsea stood. Something sharp dug into my lower back. Her stiletto.

"You love free food so much?" She leaned her weight onto the heel. "Eat up." "Kayla. Feed her. Every bite."

Kayla scooped up cold pasta and shoved it at my mouth. I wrenched my face away so hard my neck screamed.

I'd wanted to wait for Adrian. Not like this. Not with Leo's hands in a bin.

"My name is Vivian Sterling!" I shouted. "Richard Sterling is my father. This restaurant is mine—my grandmother built it! Let go of me, or every one of you is finished!"

A beat of silence.

Then the room laughed.

"Sure," Brianna said. "And I'm Taylor Swift."

"Nice try." Chelsea didn't even blink. "I've seen the paperwork, sweetheart. Adrian signs everything in this building."

Near the window, a woman finally said, "Okay, this is too much." But nobody moved. The cops were already on their way, weren't they? Somebody else's problem.

On the floor beside the bin, Max jabbed the button on his smartwatch with a shaking, sauce-smeared finger.

"Grandpa!" His voice cracked. "A bad lady hurt Aunt Viv and they're making us eat garbage! Bring the helicopter! Hurry!"

Chelsea threw her head back and laughed. "The helicopter. Oh my God. These people."

Headlights swept across the front window.

A black Range Rover slid up to the curb. Somebody near the door said it almost reverently:

"Mr. Cole's here."