Chapter 4 - The Old Man’s Table
Vincent Moretti walked slowly down the aisle, his leather cane tapping against the linoleum with a steady, rhythmic cadence. He didn't look at the smashed eggs on the floor, nor did he look at Dominic, whose chest was heaving with humiliated fury.
He stopped two feet away from Emily.
The silence in the diner was absolute. Even the refrigerator humming in the back seemed to have died down.
“You have a habit of breaking things in this establishment, Miss Carter,” Vincent said quietly.
“Your nephew here has a habit of grabbing people who didn't invite him to touch them,” Emily shot back instantly, refusing to look down. “If he didn't want his shoes ruined, he should have stayed on his own side of the counter.”
Dominic’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. He turned to Vincent, his voice trembling with indignation. “Uncle Vince, are you hearing this?! She’s a lunatic! She dropped plates all over my suit! She needs to be taught a lesson—!”
“Shut up, Dominic,” Vincent said without raising his voice.
The command was so absolute, so completely devoid of hesitation, that Dominic snapped his mouth shut as if he had been slapped across the face. He stepped back, glaring daggers at Emily while clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.
Vincent turned his gaze back to Emily. He studied her tired face, the dark circles under her eyes, the stiff, defensive posture of a woman who had fought every single day of her life just to keep her head above water.
“Sit down,” Vincent commanded softly, gesturing toward the empty corner booth.
“I’m on the clock,” Emily said.
“Consider your shift paused,” Vincent replied, turning and walking over to the booth himself. He slid onto the worn red vinyl bench as if he owned the building—which, for all Emily knew, he probably did. He looked up at her expectantly. “Bring me a coffee. Black.”
Emily stared at him for three long seconds, weighing her options, then turned on her heel, walked to the counter, poured a fresh cup of black coffee, and carried it over. She set it down on the laminate table with a deliberate, heavy thud.
Vincent didn't touch the cup. He just watched her.
“What do you want, Mr. Moretti?” Emily asked, folding her arms across her chest. “If you’re here to retaliate for yesterday, get it over with. But I’m warning you, I go down swinging.”
Vincent let out a short, dry chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. “You think I came here to retaliate over a broken coffee mug?” He shook his head slowly. “In my world, Miss Carter, people apologize when they offend me. They beg for mercy. They kiss my ring or they disappear. You told me you would end me, and then you made my nephew look like a fool in front of a dozen witnesses.”
“He grabbed my arm,” Emily said fiercely. “Nobody touches me. Not him, not you, not anyone.”
“I respect that,” Vincent said quietly.
Emily blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“I said I respect that,” Vincent repeated, picking up the ceramic cup and taking a slow sip. “Most people in this city are cowards. They fold the moment a suit walks into the room. They lie, they cheat, they crawl on their bellies just to get a scrap of approval. But you... you stood your ground yesterday over a cup of coffee. And today, you broke a tray of plates over my own blood just because he crossed a line.” He set the cup down. “That takes a rare kind of spine.”
“Spine doesn't pay my bills,” Emily muttered bitterly, looking away toward the front window.
“No,” Vincent agreed smoothly. “It doesn't. But I imagine a lot of things are paying your bills right now, and none of them are pleasant.”
Emily stiffened. She turned her head back to look at him, her eyes narrowing. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know who you are, Emily Carter,” Vincent said, leaning back against the vinyl cushions. “I know your mother has been in St. Jude’s Hospital for two years. I know your insurance company denied her last three cardiology claims. I know you sold your father’s pickup truck last November for four thousand dollars, and that you currently have thirty-one dollars and twelve cents left in your checking account after paying rent.”
The blood drained entirely from Emily’s face. The room seemed to spin on its axis.
“You... you’ve been investigating me?” she whispered, a sudden wave of panic and violation washing over her. “What kind of monster are you?!”
“I’m a man who leaves nothing to chance,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a cold, clinical register. “When someone threatens me in my own city, I find out everything about them before I decide whether to crush them or recruit them.”
“Recruit you?!” Emily laughed hysterically, shaking her head. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a waitress! I want nothing to do with you or your criminal organization!”
“Who said anything about crime?” Vincent raised an eyebrow, a faint, sardonic smile touching his lips. “I own three legitimate real estate development firms, a logistics fleet, six hotels downtown, and a private security corporation. I have more money than I could spend in three lifetimes, and more problems than I care to manage. What I need is someone who cannot be bought, cannot be bullied, and cannot be intimidated.”
He reached inside his coat, pulled out a thick manila folder, and slid it across the table toward her.
Emily didn't touch it. She looked down at the folder as if it were a venomous snake.
“What’s in there?” she asked suspiciously.
“Open it.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Emily reached out, lifted the tab, and opened the folder.
Inside sat two documents. The first was a hospital bill settlement from St. Jude’s—paid in full, stamped with a zero balance by the hospital administrator ten minutes ago. The second was a legal contract offering her the position of Chief Administrative Director of Moretti Holdings LLC, complete with a starting salary of one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year, full medical benefits, and a corporate housing allowance in Lincoln Park.
Emily stared at the papers. The numbers blurred before her eyes.
“This... this is a joke,” she whispered, her hands shaking violently. “You can't just... pay my mother’s bills and buy me off with a job.”
“It’s not a bribe, Miss Carter,” Vincent said quietly, leaning forward so she could see the absolute sincerity in his weathered eyes. “It’s an investment. You saved your mother’s life by refusing to break. Now, I’m offering you the chance to never have to worry about a hospital bill, an overdue notice, or a greasy diner counter ever again.”
Emily looked from the papers up to Vincent Moretti, her mind racing through a maze of disbelief, suspicion, and desperate, suffocating relief.
“Why?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why me?”
May you like
Vincent smiled faintly, standing up from the booth and leaning on his cane.
“Because, Emily,” Vincent said softly, turning toward the door, “this city is full of wolves. And I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by jackals waiting for me to die. It’s about time I had someone in my corner who actually knows how to bite.”
