Chapter 4 - The Boardroom TableThe offices of Moretti Logistics didn't look like a mob front from a Scorsese movie. There were no guys in tracksuits smoking cigars or pit bulls chained to filing cabinets.
It looked like a hedge fund.
The floors were polished concrete, the walls were lined with contemporary abstract art, and the reception desk was manned by a woman in a Chanel suit who looked like she could freeze coffee just by glaring at it.
“Teresa Vance,” Tessa said, her voice sounding entirely too small in the cavernous lobby. “I’m here to see... someone. Salvatore?”
The receptionist didn't blink. She pressed an intercom button. “Mr. Moretti’s guest is here.”
A side door opened immediately, and Salvatore—the same immaculate maître d’ from Bellaforte, though now wearing a charcoal three-piece suit instead of a tuxedo—stepped out.
“Teresa,” Salvatore said, offering a polite, slightly weary smile. “Right this way. The boss has been expecting you.”
He led her down a wide hallway flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking City Hall. They stopped in front of a set of frosted glass double doors. Salvatore pushed them open and gestured for her to enter.
The boardroom was massive. A single slab of polished walnut served as a conference table, surrounded by twelve leather chairs. At the far end, standing against the glass wall with a cup of espresso in his hand, was Matteo.
He wore a dark navy suit today, without a tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looked less like a restaurant patron and more like the CEO he legally claimed to be.
The doors clicked shut behind Tessa, sealing her inside.
“You have nice taste in real estate, Mr. Moretti,” Tessa said, keeping her voice steady. She didn't sit down. She stood just inside the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Does the city council know you own half the skyline, or do they just pretend not to notice while you pay off their gas bills?”
Matteo turned slowly. He took a sip of his espresso, set the white ceramic cup down on the walnut table, and walked toward her.
“The gas bill was an administrative error,” Matteo said smoothly. “Our holding company owns the building your apartment is in. It seems the accounting department had you flagged as a delinquent tenant due to a clerical mix-up with the sub-metering. I merely corrected the ledger.”
Tessa let out a dry, humorless laugh. “A clerical mix-up? Mr. Moretti, the notice on my door said final warning before disconnection. My landlord doesn't own this building; he’s a guy named Sal who drives a rusted Chevy Cobalt.”
“Sal leases the master deed from a shell corporation controlled by my logistics firm,” Matteo replied, stopping three feet away. His hazel eyes were unreadable. “In Philadelphia, Teresa, almost every basement in this city eventually connects to a pipe with my family’s name on it. You should know that. You studied local history.”
“I studied literature,” Tessa corrected sharply. “Literature deals with human suffering and redemption. Real estate law deals with extortion.”
Matteo’s lips twitched—not a smile, exactly, but the ghost of one.
“You have your mother’s spine,” he said softly. “She used to tell me that my generation of Morettis had forgotten how to read anything longer than a shipping manifest. She sat me at a folding table in the back of that condemned library for three hours every Tuesday for two years, making me conjugate Latin verbs until my head spun.”
Tessa stared at him, stunned. “You? My mother tutored you?”
“When I was seventeen,” Matteo said, turning to walk toward the wall of windows. “Before my father died and left me with a fleet of refrigerated trucks and three unions ready to tear each other’s throats out. Your mother was the only person who didn't care whose last name was on my driver’s license.”
He turned back, his expression turning businesslike.
“I don't offer charity, Teresa. Your mother wouldn't have accepted it for you, and you wouldn't accept it from me. But I do have a problem.”
“A problem,” Tessa repeated skeptically. “You’re sitting on the fourteenth floor of a glass tower with a private security detail, and you have a problem?”
“I have a multi-million-dollar import-export division currently expanding into northern Italy,” Matteo explained, crossing his arms over his chest. “My legal team in Milan sends me quarterly compliance audits, tax filings, and trade negotiations written in dense, archaic legal Italian. My current compliance officer is a CPA from South Boston who thinks jurisprudence is a brand of scotch. I need someone who can read between the lines, translate maritime contracts, and spot a fraudulent clause before the port authorities in Genoa impound my containers.”
Tessa’s breath caught. “You want to hire me?”
“I want to pay you a market-rate salary—twenty-eight dollars an hour, full medical benefits that cover chronic conditions, and a dental plan that doesn't insult you,” Matteo said evenly. “You work here, in this building, from nine to five. You fix my Italian paperwork. You keep my lawyers honest. And in exchange, you stop eating instant ramen and wearing shoes held together by office supplies.”
Tessa stood frozen. The numbers swirled in her head: twenty-eight dollars an hour. Full medical. No more walking into the freezing kitchen at midnight. No more listening to Marco scream about sea bass.
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“Why?” she whispered. “There are a hundred translators in this city with master’s degrees from Ivy League schools.”
“Because,” Matteo said, stepping closer until she could smell the clean, crisp scent of cedar and laundry detergent, “they don't know Dante. And they wouldn't have had the courage to tell a man with a gun in his city that his grammar was careless.”
