The machine rattles, then the back wallshifts. A hidden door slides open, revealing a man in black, eyebrow raised.
Sadie leans in, completely unfazed. “Need to take cover.”
The door opens wider. The guy looks at me once, then steps aside.
I let out a quiet laugh as we walk in. “This isn’t what I expected.”
She glances back at me, eyes bright. “I know.”
We descend a narrow staircase, the noise of the city disappearing behind us. At the bottom, the space opens up into something dark and stunning. Low lighting. Velvet booths. Polished concrete and brass details that catch enough glow to feel expensive.
It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find tucked in Chicago—moody and modern, almost luxurious in a way that makes you lower your voice without noticing you’re doing it.
My eyes take a second to adjust as we continue our walk. The hostess greets us with an easy smile and leads us past the bar to a booth in the corner, tucked away like it was meant to be found only by people who knew where to look.
Sadie slides in first, crossing her legs and appearing completely at home.
I sit across from her, still taking it all in.
“Okay,” I admit, “this is impressive.”
She smirks. “I told you.”
Before I can say anything else, a man steps up to the table—mid-forties, confident, sleeves rolled up, the kind of presence that says he owns the room without announcing it.
He looks at me for half a second and grins.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “You’re Colson Burke.”
Sadie’s eyebrows shoot up. Mine probably do the same.
I laugh, instinctively shaking my head. “Ummm, yeah but—”
“Don’t worry,” he cuts in, waving a hand. “Your secret is safe with me. But it’s not because of basketball, no offense.”
I sit back, confused. “Then why?”
He leans his elbow on the table. “Your mom. Tracy.”
My chest tightens.
“She was in here almost every night during the renovations on the house,” he continues, smiling like it’s a fond memory. “She’d sit at the bar, order one drink, and send me emails afterward. Pages of them. Ideasfor appetizers. Garnishes. Seasonal features.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Some of them were… ambitious.”
I groan. “That sounds like her.”
“But,” he adds, pointing toward the bar, “a few of her ideas made the menu. The smoked olives? Hers. The honeyed ricotta? All Tracy.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. I just sit there, the low hum of the room around me.
“Really sorry to hear of her passing.” His hands are on his hips.
“Thank you,” I reply, a feeling of gratitude blooming in my chest. I hadn’t known this place existed. Hadn’t known she’d left her fingerprints here by being herself. It feels like finding a note my mom left behind without realizing it—tucked into the walls of Golden Harbor, waiting for me to walk in one night and recognize it.
I wouldn’t have even known it was here if it wasn’t for Sadie.
Sadie reaches across the table and lightly touches my hand, like she knows exactly what I’m feeling without me having to explain it.
The owner straightens. “First round’s on me,” he says. “For family.”
