Chapter 3 - The Broken Glass
Lorenzo James stared at the glass of scotch I had poured, then slowly lifted his gaze back to my face. A slow, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth—not a warm smile, but the expression of a man who appreciated someone refusing to flinch when the room caught fire.
He picked up the crystal glass, swirled the amber liquid once, and set it back down without drinking. Then, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek matte-black notepad and a heavy silver fountain pen, and scribbled a single sentence across the paper before sliding it across the table toward me.
The men outside are laughing. They think you were sent in to break me.
I glanced down at the handwriting—bold, clean, and unhesitating. I picked up the pen, pulled a corner of his architectural blueprint toward me, and wrote my reply beneath his:
They think I was sent in to break. They don't know I prefer rebuilding.
Lorenzo read the words, and this time, a genuine, hard-edged smile touched his lips. He tapped the paper twice with his index finger, acknowledging the counter-strike.
Outside the heavy mahogany door, muffled by the soundproofing, a dull thud echoed—followed by the faint, muffled sound of raucous laughter. Donovan Pierce and his friends were still out there in the corridor, pressing their ears against the wood, waiting for the explosion they had paid for.
Lorenzo noticed my glance toward the door. His expression hardened instantly. He didn't need to hear the laughter; he knew the cadence of malice well enough to recognize it anywhere.
He stood up.
He was taller than I expected—over six feet two—and his tailored suit gave him an imposing physical presence that filled the private room. He walked around the walnut table, stopping just a foot away from me. The scent of cedarwood and expensive scotch washed over me, mixing with the cool rain clinging to his shoulders.
He raised his hands again, signing with slow, deliberate precision so I wouldn't miss a single nuance.
What did they pay you to come in here?
I didn't blink. I raised my own hands, answering without hesitation:
Nothing yet. But they put five thousand dollars on the bar outside for whoever walked through this door.
Lorenzo’s eyebrows rose slightly. A dark, predatory light danced in his pale blue eyes. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a slim leather billfold, extracted a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills secured with a gold band, and tossed it casually onto the center of the table.
It landed with a soft, heavy thump.
Ten thousand, Lorenzo signed, his hands moving with crisp authority. Double their bet. Tell me everything you heard outside those kitchen doors before you walked in here.
I looked at the stack of cash on the table. It was nearly four times my back rent. It was an escape hatch handed to me by a man the Boston underworld whispered about in fearful tones.
"I didn't come in here for their money, Mr. James," I said aloud, my voice cutting through the silent room.
Lorenzo paused, watching my lips move with intense concentration, reading every syllable.
"And I didn't come in here for yours," I continued, lowering my voice. "I came in because I'm tired of men like Donovan Pierce thinking they can treat everyone in this city like furniture. If you want to know what they're planning, you don't need to buy me. You just need to let me help you take them apart."
Lorenzo stared at me for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. Then, slowly, a look of profound, chilling calculation settled over his features. He reached out, picked up the stack of cash, and slid it directly across the table into my hands.
Keep it, his hands signaled sharply. You’re going to need a better dress for the board meeting on Monday anyway.
May you like
Before I could process what he meant, Lorenzo turned toward the heavy mahogany door, reached out, and gripped the brass handle.
The trap was about to spring—only it wasn't catching the waitress. It was closing around the wolves.
