Reaper Daddy

Chapter 1 Kimberly

KIMBERLY

The bell over the door jangles nonstop, like it’s having a nervous breakdown.

Every table is full. The line at the counter snakes past the pastry case and almost out the door.

The flat-top is screaming. The fryers are popping like they’ve got opinions.

The whole place smells like hot oil, garlic butter, caramelized onions, and the kind of hunger you only get when you’ve been working too long and eating too little.

I’m at the expo line, towel over one shoulder, calling plates and wiping sweat off my neck with the back of my wrist.

“Two chicken shawarma, no yogurt sauce, extra pickles—Mara, don’t let that guy near the hot sauce again, he’s already crying—one lamb tagine, extra couscous—”

“Kim, your six-top’s ready to order,” Mara calls from the host stand.

“Tell them I love them but I’m in a committed relationship with this ticket rail right now.”

She snorts. Ishaan shouts something in Hindi that I’m pretty sure is either a prayer or a threat.

It’s chaos. Beautiful chaos. My chaos.

And then the air changes.

It’s subtle at first. The way a breeze changes direction before a storm. The way a room goes a half-degree colder without any thermostat touching it.

My shoulders tighten before my brain catches up.

The bell over the door gives one soft, polite little chime.

Conversation volume drops a notch. Not silence. Just… a collective inhale.

I glance up.

And there he is.

Varek Glimner stands just inside the threshold like the restaurant personally invited him. Expensive charcoal suit, tailored within an inch of its life. Shoes that have never met real pavement. Neat beard. Perfect hair. Predatory smile polished to a high gloss.

He looks wrong in my place. Like a shark in a koi pond.

Mara’s voice falters mid-sentence at the host stand. She straightens, jaw tight, eyes flicking to me and back to him.

I feel it in my gut. That cold ripple sliding under my ribs.

He waits to be acknowledged.

Of course he does.

Then he strolls forward, unhurried, hands loose at his sides, nodding pleasantly at customers like he’s a goddamn mayor on a campaign stop.

“Smells incredible in here,” he says, voice smooth as aged liquor. “What’s that spice blend on the chicken today?”

I don’t answer him.

I finish plating a falafel bowl, slide it into the pass, and ring the bell.

“Order up.”

He steps closer to the counter anyway.

“Ms. Fierson,” he says, like he’s tasting the name. “Kimberly. Finally get to meet you face to face.”

I keep my hands busy. Wipe the counter. Align a stack of trays that do not need aligning.

“We’re slammed,” I say without looking at him. “If you want to eat, grab a menu and get in line.”

A couple customers snicker.

Varek just smiles wider.

“I’m not here for lunch.”

“Shame,” I say. “The shawarma’s life-changing.”

He leans one manicured hand against my counter like we’re old friends catching up over coffee.

Polite. Casual. Possessive.

The audacity of it spikes my blood pressure.

“I hear you run a very clean operation,” he says. “Cash flow steady. High volume. Loyal customer base. Minimal debt exposure.”

I look up at him then.

“Wow,” I say flatly. “It’s almost like you’re describing a business you don’t own.”

His eyes glitter.

“Yet.”

Mara shifts at the host stand. I feel her watching me. Ishaan’s voice drops in the kitchen. The whole place leans in without meaning to.

Varek lowers his voice just a hair.

“Alliance shipping credits are messy things. Hard to trace. Harder to regulate. Businesses like yours make excellent… buffers.”

I bark a laugh. Sharp. Loud.

It turns heads all the way to the back wall.

“Holy shit,” I say. “You really just walked into my restaurant and pitched me money laundering like it’s a fucking rewards program.”

The room goes quiet except for the sizzle of oil and the bass thudding through the front windows from a car outside.

Varek doesn’t blink.

“I prefer to think of it as a partnership.”

“I prefer to think of it as a felony.”

A guy at the counter mutters, “Oh damn.”

Varek keeps his voice soft. Reasonable. Like he’s trying to talk me down from buying a bad used car.

“Just numbers, Ms. Fierson. Just paperwork. No one gets hurt. You skim a fraction for your trouble. Life gets easier.”

I lean forward over the counter until we’re face to face.

I can smell his cologne now. Expensive. Synthetic. Too sweet.

“Let me explain something to you real slow,” I say. “So there’s no confusion. You are asking me to commit federal financial crimes inside the restaurant my dead parents built with their bare hands.”

His smile tightens.

“You’re being emotional.”

“Damn right I am.”

I straighten and raise my voice so the whole dining room can hear.

“Hey, everybody! This man in the fancy suit is here to ask me to launder dirty money through your lunch orders. Anybody cool with that?”

A woman at table four gasps.

Some guy actually applauds once before realizing that’s probably a bad idea.

Varek’s jaw flexes.

“Kimberly,” he says quietly.

I cut him off.

“Nope. You don’t get my first name. You don’t get my time. You don’t get my goddamn registers.”

I jab a finger at his chest.

“And you don’t get to act like you’re doing me a favor.”

The silence in the room is thick enough to chew.

Varek exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“Independence is expensive on Novaria,” he says gently. “Suppliers. Inspectors. Permits. All very… fragile things.”

There it is.

The threat, finally taking its mask off.

My hands shake.

Not with fear.

With rage.

I step around the counter. Mara starts to say my name.

“Kim—”

I hold up a hand without looking at her.

I stop two feet in front of Varek.

“Let me make something clear to you,” I say, low and lethal. “You don’t own this neighborhood. You don’t own my staff. You don’t own my life. And you sure as hell don’t own my restaurant.”

He tilts his head.

“You’re making a mistake.”

I smile.

Wide. Sharp. Unfriendly.

“Get the fuck out of my dining room.”

For a long second, nobody moves.

Then Varek straightens his cuff.

He looks around at the staring customers. The phones already half-raised.

His smile comes back. Smaller. Colder.

“Lovely meeting you, Ms. Fierson,” he says. “We’ll speak again.”

The door swings shut behind Varek Glimner with a cheerful little chime like it’s mocking me.

For half a second, nobody in the restaurant breathes.

Then the sound comes roaring back like someone hit unmute on the world.

Forks clink. A baby starts crying. Somebody laughs too loudly. The flat-top pops. The fryer hisses.

Mara’s already at my side.

“Jesus Christ, Kim,” she says under her breath. “Do you have a death wish?”

I don’t look at her.

My eyes are still on the door.

“He’s bluffing,” I say, even though my stomach feels like I just swallowed a live wire.

Ishaan sticks his head out of the kitchen, spatula in hand.

“Who was Suit Guy?” he asks. “Because my soul just left my body for a minute.”

“Mob,” Mara says flatly.

I finally turn.

“Okay,” I say. “Nobody freaks out. Nobody says anything to customers. We finish service. We do our jobs. We act like nothing just happened.”

Mara stares at me.

“Kim.”

“Mara.”

“He just threatened you.”

“Yeah,” I snap. “And I just threatened his ego. We’re even.”

She folds her arms.

“You know that’s bullshit.”

I lean in close so only she can hear me.

“I know exactly what he is,” I say quietly. “And I know exactly what he wants. And I am not handing my parents’ restaurant over to the Nine like a wrapped present with a fucking bow on it.”

Her jaw tightens.

“You’re going to get us all killed.”

“Not today,” I say. “Today we’re selling food.”

The bell over the door jingles again.

Another customer.

Service doesn’t care about mob threats.

Service keeps coming.

For twenty minutes, everything holds.

And then the universe starts collecting.

Mara comes up to me with her phone pressed to her ear, eyes wide.

“Kim,” she whispers. “The produce truck didn’t show.”

I close my eyes for one heartbeat.

“Did they call?”

“They’re not answering.”

Ishaan shouts from the kitchen.

“Kim! We are about to be out of cilantro and tomatoes!”

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I grab the landline and call our supplier myself.

Straight to voicemail.

I hang up. Dial again.

Voicemail.

“Okay,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “We pivot. Ishaan, eighty-six the tomato salad. Push the lentil soup and the shawarma hard.”

He pokes his head out.

“We’re gonna run out of onions by dinner rush.”

“We’ll make it work.”

“How?”

“We always do,” I say, louder than necessary.

Ten minutes later, the refrigeration unit on the cold line makes a sound like a dying animal.

It shrieks.

Then goes dead.

All the lights on the panel blink off at once.

I freeze.

Mara looks at me.

“Kim…”

I run to the back and yank open the fridge door.

Warm air breathes out at me.

I punch the wall.

Once.

Hard.

Pain flares up my forearm.

“Okay,” I say, voice too steady. “Okay. Everybody listen up.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

“We move dairy and meats into the walk-in. We ice everything else. We don’t close. We don’t panic.”

Ishaan wipes his hands on his apron.

“That compressor doesn’t just die like that.”

“I know,” I say.

Mara’s phone buzzes.

She looks at it.

Then looks at me.

“We just got a city inspector check-in notice,” she says. “Surprise audit. He’s ten minutes out.”

I laugh.

It comes out ugly.

“Oh, they are really on schedule today, huh.”

Mara grips my arm.

“Kim. This is coordinated.”

“No shit.”

The inspector shows up with a clipboard and a face like he hates sunlight.

He walks in slow. Deliberate.

Like he’s on a runway.

“Kimberly Fierson,” he says. “Health and safety compliance inspection.”

“Of course it is,” I say.

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.”

We push through dinner service with duct tape and stubbornness.

I borrow onions from the bodega next door.

I run to the corner market for tomatoes myself.

We comp meals when we have to.

Customers leave bigger tips than usual.

Someone pays for the table behind them.

Word spreads fast in a neighborhood like this.

By closing, my whole body hurts.

We lock the front door.

Ishaan heads home.

Mara stays behind while I count the till.

“You’re shaking,” she says.

“Adrenaline crash.”

“You’re lying.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m furious.”

She sighs.

“You’re going to get hurt.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But not today.”

After she leaves, I step into the alley.

The air is cold and damp.

Trash bags pile up near the dumpster.

The security light flickers.

And right there on the pavement—

The Nine’s sigil.

Burned into the concrete in greasy black ash.

Still warm at the edges.

My breath leaves my body.

“Oh, you absolute pieces of shit,” I whisper.

I drop to my knees.

I grab a scrub brush and the industrial cleaner from inside.

I start scrubbing.

The ash smears.

It stains.

My knuckles split open.

Blood streaks the concrete.

I keep scrubbing.

“I will not be owned,” I mutter through my teeth. “I will not be owned. I will not be owned.”

It finally fades into a gray ghost of a mark.

I stand.

My hands are bleeding.

I don’t care.

I lock the back door.

I turn off the lights.

I set the alarm.

When I step into the street, my hands are shaking.

Not with fear.

With fury.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to the night.

Retaliation is coming.

I choose defiance anyway.