Chapter 4 - Blood and Ledger Lines
The silence that followed James Moretti’s decree was broken only by the muffled sobs of Marcus Vance.
Marcus was sitting on the polished floorboards with his back pressed against the mahogany pillar, his head between his knees.
Frank returned from the rear corridor five minutes later carrying a thick brown paper envelope tied with a rubber band.
He held it out to James without a word.
James did not take the package; he simply gestured toward the table where I stood trembling.
"Put it in her coat pocket," James commanded.
Frank stepped over, his scarred face completely devoid of emotion, and slid the heavy envelope into the pocket of my wool coat.
The weight of fourteen thousand dollars in physical currency pulled the frayed seam down against my hip.
It felt like contraband; it felt like a bomb waiting to detonate my life.
"I can't keep this," I whispered, looking at James with wide terrified eyes.
"The police will say I stole it from the register."
"Marcus will file a report before the sun comes up."
James turned his gaze toward Marcus, who was still weeping silently against the pillar.
"Is Marcus going to file a police report, Frank?" James asked the empty air.
Frank pulled a heavy silver lighter from his trouser pocket and snapped the flint with a sharp click.
"Marcus knows that if a squad car pulls up to The Gilded Oar, three different state inspectors will look at the wine shipments."
"Marcus knows that those wine shipments don't carry federal tax stamps."
"Marcus would spend ten years in Cedar Junction before the sun finished rising."
Marcus looked up from the floor, his face pale and streaked with sweat, and shook his head vigorously.
"No police," Marcus croaked through swollen lips.
"I won't call anyone, Mr. Moretti, I swear to God."
"I'll take the morning train out of South Station, I'll go to my brother's house in Rhode Island."
"You won't take any train until you sign the transfer documents for the management lease," James said coldly.
"Leo will drive you to the North End office."
"You will sit in the basement room until my attorney arrives with the termination paperwork at eight in the morning."
Leo stepped forward from the front entrance, grabbed Marcus by the collar of his tailored shirt, and hauled him upright.
Marcus didn't fight back; he stumbled along like a condemned prisoner being led toward a scaffold.
The front heavy glass door opened and closed, letting in another violent burst of sleet before sealing shut.
The restaurant felt cavernous and empty once more.
Only the smell of seared beef and cold harbor salt remained in the air.
James walked over to the booth and looked down at Chloe.
The little girl was breathing softly, her forehead resting against the smooth leather cushion, completely oblivious to the terror.
"Get her shoes on, Grace," James said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.
"Where are you taking us?" I asked, my voice rising slightly with defensive panic.
"I have an apartment in East Boston, Mr. Moretti."
"It might be cold and the lock might be broken, but it's my home."
"I don't go into black cars with men who run the docks."
James stopped and looked at me, his eyes dark and completely steady in the amber light.
"Your apartment is on Border Street, isn't it?" he asked quietly.
A cold chill ran down my spine, far colder than the wind outside.
"How do you know where I live?"
"I know every address on the waterfront, Bennett," he said without a trace of pride.
"I know that the boiler in your building failed three days ago because the landlord refused to pay for heating oil."
"I know that two junkies broke into the third-floor laundry room on Tuesday night."
"And I know that your daughter’s lips were blue when I walked through that door an hour ago."
The truth of his words hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
Everything he said was accurate.
The building was freezing; the radiators had gone stone cold on Wednesday morning.
I had wrapped Chloe in three blankets before leaving for work, but she had still been shivering violently.
"I don't have anywhere else to go," I said, my voice breaking down into an exhausted whisper.
"Tonight, you are going to the St. Jude Parish house on Hanover Street," James said, stepping toward the door.
"Father Thomas keeps the guest rooms heated for families displaced by the harbor freezes."
"The parish belongs to my grandmother’s foundation."
"Nobody will ask you for rent, nobody will ask you for identification, and nobody will threaten to call social services."
I stared at him in complete disbelief.
"A church?"
"Did you think I was taking you to a safe house, Grace?" he asked, a faint trace of dark irony in his voice.
"I may be what the newspapers call me, but I do not house sick children in dock warehouses."
He picked up Chloe from the leather bench before I could protest.
He lifted her small body with an ease that made her seem weightless against his broad chest.
He tucked the heavy cashmere coat securely around her legs and torso so not a single inch of skin was exposed to the draft.
Chloe mumbled something unintelligible, her small cheek pressing against the lapel of his tailored suit.
She didn't wake up; she simply leaned into the warmth of the man who held her.
Frank held the front door open, his body blocking the worst of the incoming gale.
A long black Lincoln Continental was idling at the curb, its exhaust pipe billowing white plumes of steam into the night.
The headlights cut through the swirling snow, illuminating the frozen cobblestones of the alleyway.
"Come," James said over his shoulder, not waiting for my consent as he stepped out into the blizzard.
I grabbed my purse, clutched the heavy envelope in my coat pocket with both hands, and followed him into the storm.
The cold hit my face like shattered glass, stealing the breath from my lungs in an instant.
Frank opened the rear passenger door of the heavy sedan.
James slid into the leather interior first, cradling Chloe against his chest until he had settled onto the wide seat.
I climbed in beside him, my boots dripping dirty water onto the plush wool floor mats.
Frank slammed the heavy door shut, sealing out the deafening roar of the Atlantic gale.
Inside the vehicle, the air was intensely warm, smelling of rich leather and polished cedar.
The driver, an older man with gray hair and a dark cap, shifted the transmission into gear without turning around.
The heavy sedan glided smoothly away from the curb, its tires biting into the icy slush of Atlantic Avenue.
I looked out the tinted window as The Gilded Oar disappeared into the swirling white darkness behind us.
Beside me sat the most feared criminal in the state of Massachusetts, holding my sleeping daughter like a porcelain doll.
My fingers dug into the brown paper envelope in my pocket, feeling the thick stack of bills through the paper.
I had fourteen thousand dollars.
I had a warm car.
And I was heading into the heart of the North End with a man whose name was whispered in terror across the city.
I looked at James Moretti’s profile in the passing streetlights.
His jaw remained set, his eyes fixed on the empty snow-covered road ahead.
"Why are you doing this for us, Mr. Moretti?" I asked again, unable to let the question go.
The car turned onto Commercial Street, the engine humming low and deep beneath the floorboards.
James did not look at me when he finally spoke.
"Twenty years ago, my mother scrubbed floors in a fish packing plant three blocks from that restaurant."
"She died of pneumonia on a Christmas morning because she couldn't afford a bottle of penicillin."
He reached down and gently adjusted the wool over Chloe’s small hand.
"I promised myself that no mother would die on my docks for the price of medicine while I had breath in my body."
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"Now close your eyes, Grace."
"You have three hours before dawn, and tomorrow you have a new life to build."
