Chapter 3 - A Ledger in the Dark
Chloe had finished every scrap of food on the porcelain dish within twenty minutes.
Her small belly was round under her thin sweater, and her eyelids were drooping heavily again.
The warmth of the hot ribeye and the heavy cashmere coat had pulled her back into exhaustion.
She rested her forehead against the booth’s leather padding, her breath coming slow and steady.
James Moretti stood up from the wooden chair and walked over to the front windows.
He looked out into the blizzard, watching the dark waves of Boston Harbor crash against the granite pilings.
Frank stepped forward from the shadows of the archway, holding a thick black leather binder under his arm.
"Boss," Frank said softly, keeping his voice below Chloe’s breathing.
"Vance is sitting in the rear office down by the wine cellar."
"He brought the payroll sheets and the receipts from the liquor deliveries like you asked."
James did not turn around from the window.
"Did he bring the cash receipts for the cleaning staff?"
"He brought whatever he keeps in the green safe," Frank answered, tapping the leather binder.
James turned slowly, his face half-shadowed by the amber light of the dining room sconces.
"Bring Marcus Vance up here."
"Up here, Boss? In front of the girl?" Frank asked, glancing toward the booth where Chloe slept.
"Tell him to leave his coat in the hall," James ordered, ignoring the question.
"And tell him to walk quietly."
Frank nodded once, turned on his heel, and disappeared down the dark corridor leading to the basement.
My heart began to hammer violently against my ribs once again.
"Mr. Moretti, please don't bring Marcus up here," I whispered, sliding out of the booth to stand near the table.
"If he sees me sitting here eating with you, he will make sure I never find cleaning work in this city again."
"He knows every restaurant manager along the waterfront."
James turned his gray gaze upon me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Marcus Vance does not own the waterfront, Grace."
"He doesn't have to own it," I said, my voice shaking with frustration and terror.
"Men like him stick together."
"If I become a problem, they call each other and say I'm unstable or that I steal silverware."
"I have no family to back me up, I have no savings, and I have a sick child who needs medicine."
"I cannot afford for you to make a scene on my behalf."
James walked toward me until he was standing less than two feet away.
He was a tall man, easily six feet two, with broad shoulders that completely blocked the light from the bar.
The faint scent of cedarwood, cold rain, and expensive tobacco drifted from his clothes.
"Do you think I am making a scene for your benefit, Grace?" he asked in a low dangerous voice.
"I don't know why you're doing this," I replied honestly, refusing to look down at his boots this time.
"You are James Moretti."
"People in my neighborhood cross the street when your black sedans drive past."
"You don't care about cleaning ladies or six-year-old girls from East Boston."
A faint humorless smile touched the corners of his lips for a fraction of a second.
"You have a very sharp tongue for someone who cleans grease traps for twelve dollars an hour."
"Poverty makes you sharp, Mr. Moretti, or it kills you."
Before he could answer, the hallway floorboards creaked under the weight of approaching footsteps.
Frank emerged from the darkness first, holding the cellar door open with his hip.
Behind him walked Marcus Vance, looking disheveled and pale beneath his manicured stubble.
Marcus had his silk tie loosened, his collar damp with perspiration despite the freezing cold inside the restaurant.
He held a red ledger book clutched tightly against his chest with both hands like a shield.
When his eyes landed on me standing next to James Moretti, his jaw dropped open.
His gaze darted to the table, taking in the empty porcelain platter, the silver cutlery, and Chloe sleeping under the coat.
His face flushed from sickly white to a dark angry red in an instant.
"Bennett?" Marcus hissed, his voice tight with venom.
"What in the hell are you doing sitting at table four?"
"I told you to have these floors waxed and locked up by eleven o'clock!"
"Mr. Vance, I was just—" I started, stepping backward defensively.
"Shut your mouth, Vance," James Moretti said without raising his voice.
The quiet command hit the room like a crack of thunder.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from me to James with sudden panic.
"Mr. Moretti, sir, I apologize," Marcus stammered, pulling at his collar with a trembling hand.
"This woman is just the night custodian."
"She has a habit of overstepping her bounds, bringing her kid to work when she knows it's against company policy."
"I was going to fire her on Monday morning, I swear to you."
"I'll have her escorted out into the street right now so we can go over the cellar accounts in private."
James walked slowly over to the mahogany bar, picked up a clean linen napkin, and wiped his fingers.
"Who authorized you to deduct insurance fees from her hourly wage, Marcus?"
Marcus froze, his knuckles turning white around the red ledger.
"Sir?"
"You heard the question," James said, tossing the napkin onto the polished wood.
"You paid her twelve dollars an hour in cash."
"The books you submitted to my accountant last week listed the night maintenance rate at twenty-two dollars an hour."
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
"That... that includes overhead costs, Mr. Moretti."
"Supplies, chemical disposal, municipal worker compensation reserves..."
"Grace Bennett has no worker compensation," James stated coldly, stepping closer to the manager.
"She has eighteen dollars in her checking account and an eviction notice on her front door."
"She has a daughter with inflamed lungs who has to sleep on a restaurant bench because she can't buy an inhaler."
"Where did the ten-dollar difference per hour go, Marcus?"
Marcus looked at Frank, but the scarred enforcer was staring fixedly at the ceiling beams, his face blank.
Leo, standing near the door, crossed his arms and grinned with cruel amusement.
"It was standard operating margin, Mr. Moretti," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking.
"The previous owner always allowed the general manager to retain a percentage of custodial surplus."
"It’s how the industry works along the piers, I didn't steal from your family!"
"Everything that passes through these doors belongs to my family now," James said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He reached out with his right hand and took the red ledger from Marcus’s grasp with effortless strength.
Marcus did not dare resist; his arms dropped to his sides as if they had been severed.
James flipped open the ledger, his sharp gray eyes scanning the columns of numbers written in neat black ink.
"Seven months," James murmured, turning a page with a sharp snap of paper.
"Forty hours a week, sometimes fifty during the summer tourist season."
He closed the book with a heavy thud that sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil.
"You kept nearly fourteen thousand dollars that belonged to a woman cleaning human filth from your toilets."
"Mr. Moretti, please," Marcus whimpered, his knees visibly trembling.
"I have a family in Beacon Hill, I have a wedding planned for June..."
"I don't give a damn about your wedding, Marcus."
James handed the red ledger back to Frank without looking at him.
"Open the safe in the back office," James instructed.
"Take fourteen thousand dollars out of the operational cash reserve."
"If the safe doesn't hold fourteen thousand, take Marcus’s car keys and the watch off his wrist to make up the balance."
Marcus gasped, taking a frantic step forward.
"That watch was my father's!"
Frank stepped into Marcus’s path with the speed of a striking cobra, slamming a heavy forearm across the manager’s chest.
The impact knocked Marcus backward against the wood pillar with a sickening thud.
"Don't move toward the boss, Marcus," Frank growled into his ear.
"You know better than that."
I stood by the booth, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep from crying out.
Chloe stirred again on the cushions, whimpering softly in her sleep as the commotion disturbed her dreams.
James turned his back on Marcus Vance as if the man had ceased to exist.
He walked over to the booth, looked down at Chloe’s pale face, and reached out to pull the coat higher over her shoulders.
"The storm is getting worse, Grace," he said quietly, his voice returning to that calm, steady cadence.
"You are not walking back to East Boston in this weather."
"Mr. Moretti, you can't just take his money and give it to me," I whispered, terrified of the consequences.
"That is not his money," James replied, his gray eyes locking onto mine with absolute certainty.
May you like
"That was your sweat."
"And nobody steals sweat from people who work under my roof."
