Chapter 6 - THE WEASEL IN THE WAREHOUSE
The grandfather clock in the corner of Moretti’s study chimed once, a deep, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate straight down to the floorboards.
Elena stared at the plastic casing on the mahogany desk, her mind spinning backward through the frantic, blurry hours of her shift. Paul Henley’s damp face. His frantic warnings in the kitchen before service even started. The way he had pushed her away from the expediting station when she first came back inside.
"Paul," Elena breathed, the pieces finally clicking into place like the tumblers of a vault. "It was Paul."
"Paul Henley," Moretti repeated, rolling the name over his tongue as if tasting something sour. "The dutiful manager of Harbor House. A man who owes forty grand to a bookmaker in Little Italy named Salvo. Salvo doesn't have the brains to engineer a hit like this, which means someone higher up bought Paul's debt to get that explosive into my private dining room."
"He was sweating before the doors even opened," Elena said, stepping closer to the desk, her protective instincts for her brother now morphing into a cold, focused anger. "He told me specifically not to improvise. He kept everyone else away from Table Twelve all evening. He assigned me to that section because I'm quiet, because I keep my head down. He thought I wouldn't look under the wood."
Moretti reached out and picked up his desk phone, punching a single intercom button with his thumb.
"Frankie," Moretti said into the receiver.
The door opened instantly, Frankie stepping back into the room with a crisp white towel and a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, which he placed quietly on a side table without being asked.
"Boss?" Frankie grunted.
"Go pick up our friend Paul Henley from the restaurant," Moretti ordered, his voice dropping an octave into a cold, flat register. "Bring him here. Don't break his legs yet—we need him to walk through the front door of his own accord so he can explain to us who handed him the package."
"On it," Frankie said, a grim smile touching his battered mouth. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the hallway, the heavy doors shutting behind him with a solid, definitive thud.
Moretti turned his attention back to Elena, sliding the manila envelope across the polished mahogany toward her.
"Take it," Moretti said.
Elena looked down at the thick envelope, then back up at the most dangerous man in Maryland. "You said this was for information. I haven't given you anything you didn't already suspect."
"You gave me validation," Moretti replied, standing up slowly from his desk. He was shorter than she expected, but the sheer density of his presence filled the room. "In my world, suspicion gets you killed; verification keeps you alive. That envelope is your retainer, Elena. Because once we get Paul to talk, we are going to find out which of my associates thinks they can clear the board while I'm still sitting at it."
"Retainer?" Elena echoed, backing away slightly. "I'm a waitress, Mr. Moretti. I don't do... whatever it is you do."
"You have sharp eyes, a cool head under fire, and an invisible presence that lets you walk right past armed men without them blinking," Moretti said, walking around the desk to stand three feet away from her. "Those are very rare skills in Baltimore, Elena. And right now, I need someone inside the Harbor House network who isn't on my payroll—someone who can find out who else in my organization is wearing a wire."
Elena looked down at the envelope. Twenty-five thousand dollars. A clean house in Towson. Her brother's medical bills permanently erased. The ghost of her dead father’s crushing debts finally laid to rest.
She had spent three years playing the victim of a broken system, dodging bill collectors, and smiling through humiliations just to keep the lights on. Tonight, she had stared down an assassin, unmasked a traitor, and looked a crime lord in the eye without blinking.
May you like
She reached out, her fingers closing around the edge of the manila envelope.
"What's the first assignment?" Elena asked.
