Chapter 5 - Unfinished Business
Two weeks later, the front-page headline of the Providence Journal read: SENATOR CALLOWAY SUSPENDS RE-ELECTION CAMIDAGIN AMID FEDERAL FRAUD INVESTIGATION. Below it, a smaller subheading detailed the arrest of Margaret Calloway on charges of grand larceny, insurance fraud, and falsifying police reports stemming from an incident at a private Newport estate.
Inside the carriage house apartment, I sat at my wooden kitchen table, drinking black coffee and reviewing the weekly provisioning logs for the estate.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the bay, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and gold.
A knock sounded at my front door.
I set down my mug, walked across the polished floor, and pulled the door open.
Mr. Salvati stood on the landing. He wasn't wearing his usual tailored suit; instead, he wore a dark wool coat, his collar turned up against the morning sea breeze.
“Good morning, Clara,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Salvati. Is there an issue with the morning security roster?”
“No,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, though he paused to wipe his shoes carefully on the mat. “In fact, the rosters are entirely clear. But there is a matter of administrative restructuring we need to discuss.”
I frowned slightly, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Restructuring?”
“Effective today,” Mr. Salvati said, pulling a thick manila folder from beneath his coat and placing it squarely in front of my provisioning logs, “the title of House Manager is being retired.”
My heart skipped a single beat. For a fraction of a second, the old fear flared up—the memory of being handed a suitcase in the rain, of hearing that my services were no longer required.
Mr. Salvati must have seen the sudden shadow cross my face, because he quickly raised a hand.
“Not that kind of restructuring, Clara,” he said, his voice dropping into a warm, reassuring register. “The estate needs more than a manager. It needs someone with absolute authority over every asset, every security protocol, and every financial ledger we operate. I’m appointing you Director of Operations for Salvati Holdings' New England properties.”
I stared at the manila folder. On the cover, typed in crisp black letters, was my full name followed by the new title.
“Director of Operations,” I repeated, the words feeling foreign and impossibly large on my tongue. “Mr. Salvati... that’s an executive position. That’s board-level.”
“And you’ve been doing the work of an executive since the day you walked through my gates,” he replied simply, leaning his hands against the edge of the table. “You know every vulnerability in this house, every loophole in the contracts, and every person who tries to take shortcuts. I’d rather trust my entire empire to you than to a dozen ivy-league consultants who only know how to look good in photographs.”
I looked down at the folder, then up at him. The last echoes of the girl who had been thrown out into the rain ten years ago finally evaporated into the morning air.
May you like
“Thank you, Mr. Salvati,” I said, my voice steady, clear, and filled with a quiet, unshakeable strength.
“You’re very welcome, Clara,” he smiled, the hard edges of the Newport tycoon softening completely. “Now, put the provisioning logs away. We have an executive meeting in the main study at nine o'clock, and I expect my new Director of Operations to be wearing something other than a house manager’s apron.”
