Up close, Vincent Kane smelled like expensive cedarwood, rain, and cold iron. He didn't look scary anymore; he just looked... sharp. Like a blade kept in a velvet sheath.
He reached out and gently touched the corner of my wrinkled paper, his long finger tracing the purple stars I had colored with my cheap crayon.
"Seventy-seven days," Vincent said softly. His voice wasn't loud, but every person in the restaurant—from the busboys hiding in the kitchen to the diners chewing their ribeyes—could hear every syllable. "That’s how many days she worked for you without seeing a dime?"
"She... she missed shifts! Her productivity was low!" Sterling lied, sweating profusely now, his collar suddenly feeling like a noose. "The accounting department handles the books—"