Mafia Boss Receives A Call From Poor Waitress At 2 A.M.: "Your Daughter Is Shivering In The Rain

Mafia Boss Receives A Call From Poor Waitress At 2 A.M.: "Your Daughter Is Shivering In The Rain

The rain hammered against the greasy windows of Rosie's Diner like a thousand tiny fists. Each droplet caught the red neon glow of the Open Twenty-Four Hours sign, turning it into something almost beautiful. Almost. But nothing in South Side Chicago stayed beautiful for long. Grace Sullivan wiped down the same spot on the counter for the third time, her worn cloth leaving streaks instead of cleaning them. Her fingers were pruned from hours of dishwater and coffee spills. It was nearly midnight, and the diner reeked of burnt coffee, rancid grease, and the desperation that clung to everyone who walked through those doors at this late hour. Her feet ached in her cheap sneakers, the ones with soles peeling away from the canvas. She had been on shift since two in the afternoon, pulling a double because Sarah called in sick again. And Frank, her manager, did not care that she had already worked six days straight, that tomorrow morning she had to wake up at four to deliver food. He just grunted and told her table four needed more ketchup. Grace was invisible here. Just another twenty-seven-year-old waitress in a stained apron. Another gaunt face serving eggs and bacon to truckers and insomniacs who never really looked at her. They looked through her, past her, around her. The phone in her pocket buzzed. A message from the hospital: Lily Sullivan's bill is overdue. Please pay fifteen thousand dollars by Friday or the patient will be transferred. Grace deleted the message with trembling fingers. Fifteen thousand dollars. She made two hundred eighty dollars this week. Rent was six hundred. And her sister, the only family left after the fire twenty years ago, was slowly dying in the hospital from kidney failure. Her dreams of art school and a different life had been buried long ago, under one hundred eighty thousand dollars of student debt she would never pay off, under sleepless nights, under meals of nothing but instant noodles and diner leftovers. The bell above the door chimed, letting in a gust of wet wind that cut through skin. Grace did not look up immediately. She had learned not to seem too eager, too desperate for tips. But something made the air in the diner change. It got heavier, thicker, like the pressure before a thunderstorm. When she finally glanced toward the door, she saw him. He did not belong here.

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