Chapter 3 The Shadow of the Elite
The subway ride from the girls' school to the cafe was a twenty-minute blur of grey tunnels and screeching metal. I stood the whole way, clutching a pole that felt sticky with the city’s grime, my eyes tracing the flickering fluorescent lights above the door. My brain was a calculator that wouldn't turn off, the numbers etched into my mind like scars. $5 for milk (gone), $342 for the electric bill (due in 72 hours), and roughly $60 for Zoe’s light-up shoes. I added the subway fare back into the mental ledger, subtracting it from the shrinking pile of tips in my pocket. The math was a suffocating loop, a zero-sum game where the answer was always "not enough."
I didn't have the luxury of thinking about a university degree. To me, "higher education" was a fantasy for people who didn't have to worry about the price of a gallon of milk or whether the radiator would survive the night. My education was happening here, in the dirt and the noise, learning how to stretch a dollar until it screamed and how to walk through the world without letting it see how much I was shaking.
When I pushed through the heavy glass door of The Daily Grind, the smell of roasted beans and expensive steam hit me like a physical wall. It was the scent of a world that didn't have to worry about the "Final Notice" sitting in my kitchen drawer. It was the smell of disposable income, of people who could spend seven dollars on a latte without blinking, while I was currently debating if I could skip lunch to save the three dollars it would cost for a deli sandwich.
"You look like death took a vacation and left you in charge," a sharp, familiar voice called out.
I didn't even have to look up to smile. Eliza Jones was already behind the counter, her dark hair pulled back into a fierce high ponytail that looked like it could be used as a weapon. While I was the one who kept the peace and played the "Parent," Eliza was the warrior. We had been inseparable since kindergarten; she was the only person alive who knew exactly what was inside my "junk drawer." Unlike the girls at the elite campus across the bridge who spent their mornings debating literature, Eliza was working sixty hours a week between the cafe and a late-night cleaning crew, hoarding every cent in a duct-taped shoebox so that maybe, in three years, she could afford a single semester of community college.
"Nice to see you too, 'Lou," I mumbled, sliding behind the counter to grab my apron.
"Don't 'Lou' me. Your hands are shaking," she said, her eyes narrowing as she handed me a double-shot espresso in a paper cup. "Drink. Now. I already handled the pre-rush prep and dealt with the delivery guy who tried to short-change us on the almond milk. You just focus on looking like a functional human being before the 8:00 AM wave hits."
I took a sip, the bitter, concentrated heat jolting my system and settling the frantic rhythm of my heart. "I’m fine. Just a long night. My parents didn't come back, and the radiator is acting up again. I think the pilot light is out, but I didn't have time to mess with it."
Eliza’s expression hardened, her jaw setting in that familiar, protective way. She didn't offer pity—she knew I’d rather take a punch than a "poor you"—but she reached over and squeezed my forearm, her grip grounding me. "We’ll figure it out, Mila. We always do. If we have to, we'll go over there and kick the landlord's door down together. But for now, you need to be present."
Behind her, the wall-mounted television, usually tuned to a silent weather loop, was flashing a "Breaking News" banner in a jarring shade of crimson. The volume was low, but the name at the bottom of the screen made my blood run cold, dragging my attention away from the espresso.
SALVATORE HOLDINGS ANNOUNCES HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF FAIRMONT SHIPPING.
A sleek, silver-haired woman appeared on the screen—Alexandra Salvatore. She looked like she was carved out of ice and diamonds, standing in a marble foyer that probably cost more than our entire apartment block. The reporter’s voice cut through the hum of the milk steamer, sounding breathless and reverent.
"...led by matriarch Alexandra Salvatore, the move effectively solidifies the family's stranglehold on the Atlantic trade routes. Sources say her son and heir, Nathaniel Salvatore, is currently finishing his final year at the University, preparing to take his place as the head of the empire's European division following his graduation this spring. The market has already responded with a five-percent jump in shares..."
"Look at that," Eliza spat, nodding toward the screen as she slammed a portafilter into the machine with enough force to make the counter rattle. "They’re playing Monopoly with people’s lives while we’re counting nickels for the G-train. That woman looks like she’s never had a single hair out of place in fifty years. She probably has someone whose entire job is just to make sure her coffee is exactly sixty-eight degrees."
I stared at the screen as a brief clip played of the "Heir." Nathaniel Salvatore was stepping out of a black towncar in front of a sprawling, ivy-covered campus. He was tall, with dark hair and a face so handsome it felt like a personal insult to everyone struggling in the shadows of his buildings. He didn't look at the cameras; he didn't smile or acknowledge the reporters. He just moved with a cold, effortless grace that suggested the world belonged to him by birthright, and everyone else was just occupying space.
He lived in a world of leather-bound books, silent libraries, and legacy. I lived in a world of steam-burned palms, aprons, and envelopes with red ink.
"Must be nice," I whispered, watching him disappear into a stone building that looked more like a cathedral than a school. "To have your whole life mapped out before you're even born. To know that no matter what you do, the floor will never drop out from under you."
"He's a shark, Mila," Eliza said, her voice dropping as the first customer of the morning rush approached the door, the bell jingling with a cheerful sound that felt at odds with the news. "People like him don't even see people like us. We're just the background noise in their kingdom. If you stay invisible, they can't hurt you."
"I've been invisible my whole life, Eliza," I said, tying my apron strings tight and stepping toward the register. "I'm an expert at it."
I forced my shoulders down and put on the mask. The "Mila the Provider" mask.
"Welcome to The Daily Grind," I said to the first customer with a practiced, bright smile. "What can I get started for you?"
The rush had officially begun. The steam hissed, the grinders roared, and the world narrowed down to the next order, the next tip, and the desperate hope that the numbers would finally add up.