Chapter 3 - The Audit of Gerald MossAt six o'clock the following evening, the rain beat heavily against the tinted glass of a black Suburban parked outside Saltline in Manhattan.
Inside the rear passenger cabin, Maeve sat wrapped in a heavy wool coat, her left arm secured in a black sling. Sitting beside her was Rafe, calmly sipping dark espresso from a porcelain cup while reviewing a thick stack of financial documents.
"You shouldn't have brought me here," Maeve whispered, looking through the rain-streaked window at the warm glow of the restaurant's front entrance.
"You spent three years suffering under that parasite's thumb, Maeve," Rafe said, setting his cup down. "You're going to watch him receive his invoice."
The door of the Suburban opened, and Marco—Rafe's chief enforcer—nodded. "He's inside the office, Boss. The floor is clear."
Rafe stepped out of the vehicle and held his hand out to help Maeve down. Together, flanked by four armed men in charcoal suits, they walked through the front doors of Saltline.
The restaurant was closed to the public. The tables were stripped of their white linen, and the ambient lights were dimmed.
In the back office, Gerald Moss sat behind his glass desk, frantically punching numbers into a calculator while surrounded by stacks of unpaid supplier receipts. When the heavy door flew open, hitting the wall with a thunderous bang, Moss leaped out of his chair, dropping his pen.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Moss demanded, his voice high and shrill. Then his eyes landed on Rafe Colazzo, and his face instantly turned the color of ashes. "M-Mr. Colazzo... I... I didn't expect you back so soon after... after the unfortunate incident last night—"
"Sit down, Gerald," Rafe said softly.
He didn't raise his voice, but the command was absolute. Moss dropped back into his leather chair as though his legs had been cut out from under him.
Rafe walked over to the desk, pulled out a chair for Maeve, and gestured for her to sit. Then he placed the thick leather binder onto the glass desk between them.
"I bought the commercial mortgage on this building at eight o'clock this morning," Rafe stated casually, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. "As of nine o'clock, I am your landlord. And at ten o'clock, my forensic accountants completed an audit of Saltline’s payroll distribution for the last thirty-six months."
Moss swallowed hard, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his temple. "An... an audit?"
"It appears," Rafe continued, leaning over the desk until he was inches from Moss’s trembling face, "that you have been systematically withholding twenty percent of the tips earned by your floor staff, falsifying health insurance deduction records, and pocketing the difference to pay off your private gambling debts at the docks."
Maeve gasped, turning her head to stare at Moss. "The insurance deductions... you told me my coverage was denied because of a pre-existing condition!"
"He lied," Rafe said coldly. "He took twelve thousand dollars out of your paychecks over three years and used it to bet on college basketball."
"Mr. Colazzo, please!" Moss whimpered, falling out of his chair onto his knees, his hands clasped together in desperate pleading. "I can pay it back! Give me a month! I’ll get the money!"
"You don't have a month, Gerald," Rafe murmured, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "You have ten minutes to sign over your entire equity stake in this restaurant to Maeve Donovan. If you sign, my legal team will refrain from handing these embezzlement files to the State Prosecutor. If you refuse..."
Rafe glanced at Marco standing near the door.
"...Marco will take you for a drive to the docks."
Moss didn't hesitate. With trembling, sweat-stained hands, he snatched a pen from the desk and signed his name across the bottom of the equity transfer documents three times.
"Get your coat and get out," Rafe commanded without looking at him.
Moss stumbled out of the office like a beaten dog, slamming the back door behind him as he fled into the alley.
Maeve sat in the leather chair, staring at the legal documents bearing her name as the sole proprietor of Saltline.
"I don't know how to run a high-end restaurant, Rafe," she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
May you like
Rafe walked around the desk, standing beside her chair, his large, warm hand resting gently on her uninjured shoulder.
"You've been running this floor for three years while he took the credit, Maeve," Rafe said gently. "Now, it's yours."
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