Chapter 3 - The Offer That Cannot Be RefusedAcross town, inside the penthouse office of the Russo Holdings tower overlooking a glittering, frozen skyline, Dante Russo stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, swirling a glass of neat bourbon.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the ambient neon glow of the city below and the amber light of a solitary desk lamp.
Marco stood near the door, holding a thick manila folder. His face was pale, his posture rigid.
“You checked him?” Dante asked, his voice low and smooth.
“Yes, boss,” Marco swallowed hard. “The old man on the bench. His name is Arthur Pendelton. Seventy-eight years old. Former chief accountant for the old dockworkers’ union back in the nineties. Lost his pension when the union collapsed under federal RICO investigations. He’s been living in a shelter off Arch Street for three years. No family. No safety net.”
Dante took a slow sip of bourbon, the amber liquid burning his throat. “And the girl?”
“Nina Walsh,” Marco replied, opening the folder. “Thirty-two years old. Works two jobs—mornings at Sullivan’s Sandwich Counter on 4th, evenings at a dry-cleaning depot on South Street. Widowed three years ago; her husband was a line worker who died in an industrial accident at the port. Minimal payout, all swallowed by medical debt. She lives in a two-room walk-up on 12th and Christian. Clean record. Hard worker. Never asked for a handout in her life.”
Dante turned slowly from the window. His dark eyes caught the lamplight.
“She gave her coat to her daughter,” Dante said, almost to himself. “And her daughter gave her only jacket to a freezing man she didn't know. In a city where everyone is trying to take something from everyone else.”
“Boss, what do you want us to do?” Marco asked cautiously. “If you want, I can drop an envelope at her apartment. Anonymous donation. Enough to cover her rent for a year. That way, we’re clear of it.”
“An anonymous envelope?” Dante’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Marco, do you take her for a fool? She’d burn the money before she spent a dime of it. She’s proud. You don’t buy pride like that with a brown paper bag.”
“Then what’s the play?”
Dante walked over to his mahogany desk, reaching down to pick up a folded piece of paper left behind by one of his commercial real estate brokers. He stared at it for a long moment before looking up at his associate.
“Sullivan’s Sandwich Counter,” Dante said quietly. “Who owns the commercial lease on that building?”
Marco blinked, consulting his notes. “That would be Vinnie Marcone. The property is underwater. Vinnie’s been trying to sell it to us for six months to cover his gambling debts at the club.”
Dante picked up his cell phone, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass screen.
“Buy the building, Marco,” Dante ordered smoothly. “Every square foot of it. And make sure the new landlord policy includes a complete managerial restructuring.”
May you like
Marco stared at him in disbelief. “Boss... you’re buying a sandwich shop just to change the management?”
“No,” Dante said, his gaze sharpening into a cold, absolute focus. “I’m buying the building so that Mrs. Walsh stops working herself to death on her feet by forty. And tomorrow morning, you’re going to personally deliver my coat back to her. Along with a few things she’s going to find very difficult to refuse.”
