Chapter 2 - The Audit of Power
Arthur stood frozen near the coat rack, sweat instantly beading along his hairline despite the freezing winter air rushing through the cracked door.
“I... I pay her the standard hourly rate, Mr. Moretti!” Arthur pleaded, his voice squeaking as he wiped his brow with a shaking sleeve. “She’s an independent contractor! I follow the legal minimum guidelines!”
James slowly set his glass down on the table. The sound of the glass touching the wood was like a gavel striking a courtroom desk.
“You follow the legal minimum,” James repeated softly. He turned his head to look at Arthur. His dark eyes were cold, razor-sharp, and unyielding. “And yet, my accounting team tells me that this building’s owner—a subsidiary company you manage—has failed to pay state commercial taxes for three consecutive quarters. You cut your workers’ hours, pocket the tip funds, and alter the clock-in logs to avoid paying overtime.”
Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “That... that’s a misunderstanding! Somebody gave you wrong information!”
“I don't receive wrong information, Arthur,” James said calmly. “I own the bank that holds the mortgage on this building. Which means, as of five minutes ago, I own this restaurant.”
I stared at James in utter shock. My breath caught in my throat.
James signaled to Frank, who stepped forward and placed a thick leather folder onto the table in front of Arthur.
“In that folder,” James continued, his tone smooth as silk, “are copies of your altered payroll sheets for the past two years. You owe Grace Bennett four thousand six hundred dollars in stolen back-pay and unpaid overtime.”
Arthur dropped to his knees right there on the tiled floor, his composure completely shattered. “Mr. Moretti, please! I have a family! Don't involve the authorities!”
“You will write Grace a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars right now,” James said, not a single trace of emotion on his face. “Then you will pack your desk, hand your keys to Frank, and leave this neighborhood. If I ever catch you within five miles of Grace or her daughter again, we will have a very different conversation in a very different room.”
Arthur didn't hesitate. He scrambled to his feet, pulled out his checkbook with hands that shook so badly he could barely hold the pen, and scribbled the check on the hostess counter. He shoved it toward Frank, grabbed his coat, and fled out into the snowstorm like a man fleeing a burning building.
The restaurant fell silent again, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle sound of Chloe chewing on her panettone cake.
Frank walked over and placed the five-thousand-dollar check on our table in front of me.
I stared at the check, then up at James. My heart was pounding like a drum against my ribs.
“Mr. Moretti... I can’t accept this,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes again. “This is... this is too much. I don't know how to repay you.”
James looked at me, his sharp features softening into a look of quiet respect.
“You don't owe me anything, Grace,” James said gently. “That money was stolen from your sweat and labor. I merely returned what was already yours.”
He stood up, putting his jacket back on and buttoning his cuffs with practiced elegance. He looked down at Chloe, who was staring up at him with wide, idolizing eyes.
“Merry Christmas, little one,” James said softly to my daughter.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Moretti!” Chloe beamed, her face smeared with powdered sugar. “Are you Santa’s helper?”
Frank let out a sudden, muffled cough to hide a laugh, while the other two guards bit their lips to keep straight faces.
For the first time all evening, a genuine, handsome smile broke across James Moretti’s hard face.
“Something like that,” James replied, bowing his head slightly to her.
He turned to me. “Frank will drive you and Chloe home in my car. The storm is getting worse.”
“No, please, we can walk—”
“Grace,” James interrupted, his voice firm yet extraordinarily tender. “The car is waiting. Accept the ride.”
May you like
He walked toward the exit, his bodyguards opening the door for him. But just before he stepped out into the swirling snow, he paused and looked back at me over his shoulder.
“I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to inspect my new property,” James said. “I expect you to be here. Not as a cleaner, Grace... but as the new general manager of this restaurant.”
