Chapter 4 - The Freeze
By midnight, the Salvati estate had cleared out.
The donors, politicians, and socialites had been escorted off the grounds through the north gates while local reporters were kept a mile down the coastal road by private security. The scandal hadn't leaked to the press yet, but in Newport, secrets didn't stay buried for long—especially when federal marshals and local detectives arrived at a U.S. Senator’s home within twenty minutes of a gala ending.
I stood on the west stone balcony, looking out over the dark, churning Atlantic Ocean. The salt spray drifted up on the wind, cooling the red mark still lingering faintly on my cheek.
The heavy glass door behind me slid open.
Footsteps approached softly across the stone tiles. Mr. Salvati stepped out, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand. He offered it to me; I shook my head, so he took a slow sip himself, leaning against the balustrade beside me.
“The Senator’s campaign manager just called my office,” Mr. Salvati said, his voice carrying a dry amusement. “They’re offering to shut down all fundraising activities by sunrise if I agree not to release the unedited security footage to the federal investigators.”
“And what did you say?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the horizon where the moonlight silvered the crests of the waves.
“I told him that my estate’s security feeds are the property of Salvati Holdings, and we take our data archiving very seriously,” he replied smoothly. “By morning, the FBI field office in Providence will have every single file, wire transfer, and ledger entry related to Mrs. Calloway’s gambling debts and the Senator’s unreported campaign contributions.”
I let out a long, slow breath, feeling the last ten years of accumulated weight finally slide off my shoulders.
“Thank you, Mr. Salvati,” I said quietly. “You didn't have to go that far. You could have just asked them to leave quietly.”
Mr. Salvati turned his head, his dark eyes studying me in the moonlight. The scar along his jaw caught the silver light.
“Clara,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction. “You manage my estate, secure my vaults, protect my staff, and keep this entire multi-million-dollar operation running without a single flaw. If I can't protect my own house manager from washed-up socialites trying to rewrite history, then I don't deserve to own this cliff.”
A small, genuine smile touched my lips.
May you like
“I suppose not.”
“Besides,” he added, taking another sip of his scotch, “the campaign freeze is already in motion. Word travels fast when three police cruisers park outside a Newport mansion at midnight. By noon tomorrow, Senator Calloway’s political career won't just be frozen—it’ll be extinct.”
