He starts writing citations like he’s playing a video game.
Improper refrigeration temperature.
Insufficient cold-holding capacity.
Documentation discrepancy.
Unverified maintenance log.
“This is bullshit,” I snap. “That unit died an hour ago.”
“Equipment failure is not an exemption,” he says blandly.
I watch him write dollar signs onto my life.
By four p.m., I’ve lost a supplier, a fridge, and five grand in citations.
And I’m still open.
I call the staff into the dining room.
They look scared.
Tired.
Mad.
“Okay,” I say. “Here’s what’s happening. Someone powerful is mad at me. They are trying to scare me into selling out my business.”
A server raises her hand.
“…sell out to who?”
“Mob.”
A couple people swear.
I keep going.
“I am not doing it. That means things are going to get harder for a while. Anyone who wants out, no questions asked, I’ll write you a glowing reference and help you land somewhere safe.”
Nobody moves.
Ishaan crosses his arms.
“I didn’t flee two wars to be bullied out of a kitchen by rich criminals,” he says calmly.
Mara nods.
“Same.”
One of the servers sniffs.
“I just started paying off my student loans,” she says. “I am not letting some suit ruin my job.”
My chest tightens.
“Okay,” I say hoarsely. “Then we ride.”
