Chapter 6 - The Clean Slate
Three months later, the spring air in SoHo was crisp, carrying the scent of blooming magnolias and roasting coffee beans from the corner bistros.
The gallery on Greene Street was everything our old penthouse hadn't been: bright, airy, filled with natural light pouring through massive arched windows, and lined with stunning contemporary canvases that didn't hide behind pretension.
I stood behind the front desk, wearing a tailored cream linen blazer and silk trousers, my hair falling freely around my shoulders in loose, natural waves. No knot. No restrictions.
The brass door chime rang softly.
I looked up, expecting our first morning collector. Instead, a tall, impeccably dressed man in a charcoal suit stood in the doorway, holding a single white orchid in a glass sleeve.
Salvatore Moretti walked across the polished oak floor, his stride unhurried, carrying the quiet, gravitational pull of a man who owned the ground he walked on.
"Good morning, Miss Sullivan," Moretti said, setting the orchid on the corner of my desk.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," I replied, offering a genuine, unforced smile. "To what do I owe the honor? The quarterly financial reports aren't due until Friday."
"I was in the neighborhood," he said lightly, his dark eyes scanning the pristine white walls of the gallery before returning to me. "And I wanted to ensure that my investment was still thriving."
"The gallery is running at a thirty percent surplus this quarter," I said, tapping the screen of my tablet. "And as for the management... there hasn't been a single broken glass in months."
Moretti smiled—a rare, transforming expression that softened the hard lines of his face.
"I am glad to hear it," he said. He turned toward the massive front windows, watching the yellow cabs stream down Greene Street in the morning sun. "And Mr. Kessler?"
"He took a plea deal last month," I answered, my voice steady and completely devoid of fear. "Three to five at a federal facility upstate for wire fraud and embezzlement. His mother sent me an email last week blaming me for ruining his career."
Moretti let out a low, gravelly hum of amusement. "Families can be terribly ungrateful when you clean house for them."
He turned back to face me, sliding a small, unmarked envelope across the polished wood of the desk.
"What is this?" I asked, looking down at it.
"Your new apartment lease," Moretti said simply. "A brownstone in Greenwich Village. High ceilings, secure parking, and—most importantly—no console tables in the hallway."
I picked up the envelope, feeling the weight of the heavy paper between my fingers. I looked up into his slate-gray eyes, seeing neither the threat of a mafia boss nor the hollow promises of an abuser, but something entirely different: a partner who recognized strength because he possessed it himself.
May you like
"Thank you, Salvatore," I said quietly, using his first name for the very first time.
Moretti nodded once, turned on his heel, and walked out into the bright New York morning, leaving the door unlocked and the world wide open.
