Chapter 2 - The Table at the Back
The smell began to drift out of the kitchen ten minutes later.
It wasn't the smell of reheated line food or quick late-night prep. It was the rich, intoxicating aroma of garlic sizzling in sweet butter, crushed San Marzano tomatoes, fresh basil, and baking bread. The scent filled the dim, chilly dining room, making my stomach growl so loudly that Marco glanced over with a faint, sympathetic nod.
Chloe sat up straight in the booth, her nose twitching. "Mommy... it smells like a party."
"Shh, baby," I whispered, holding her hand under the table. My mind was spinning at a hundred miles an hour.
Why was James Moretti—a man whose name was whispered in hushed, fearful tones across the North End—standing over a stove cooking for a night-shift janitor and her daughter? I had heard the rumors. People said he was ruthless. They said he had taken over the Moretti family business after his father’s sudden death five years ago and consolidated power across the state through sheer force of will. He wasn't a man who did favors. He was a man who collected debts.
The swinging doors pushed open, and James walked out.
He carried a large stainless-steel tray. His tie was gone, his top two shirt buttons were undone, and his sleeves were folded neatly up to his elbows. He looked stripped of his corporate, lethal armor, yet he still commanded every inch of the room.
He placed the tray onto the table in front of us with surprising gentleness.
On it were two steaming bowls of penne alla vodka tossed with fresh mozzarella and seared chicken tenderloins, a basket of garlic bread glistening with butter, and two covered mugs of thick hot chocolate topped with whipped cream.
Chloe’s eyes went wide. She looked at the food, then up at James, then at me, as if asking for permission to believe it was real.
"Eat," James said simply, sliding into the booth seat across from us.
"Mr. Moretti, I..." My voice cracked. "I don't know what to say. I can't afford to pay for this."
"Did I ask for your money, Grace?" he asked quietly, picking up a napkin and placing it neatly beside Chloe's plate. "It's Christmas Eve. Nobody sleeps hungry under a roof I own."
A roof I own.
The realization hit me like a splash of cold water. The Grand Bell wasn't just a restaurant where I worked through a third-party cleaning agency. The building itself was part of Moretti Real Estate holdings.
Chloe didn't wait any longer. She grabbed a fork with her tiny fingers and took a bite of the pasta. Her face lit up in a way I hadn't seen in months. "Mommy! It's so good! It's warm!"
A soft, almost invisible smile tugged at the corner of James’s hard mouth as he watched her swallow her first real meal of the day.
"Take your time, little one," he murmured softly.
I picked up my fork with trembling fingers. The first bite melted on my tongue. I hadn't eaten since a slice of dry toast at six this morning. I had been saving every scrap of food in our tiny apartment for Chloe, skipping meals so often that my jeans barely stayed up around my waist. The warmth of the food filled my chest, and before I could stop myself, tears spilled over my eyelashes and tracked down my cheeks.
I wiped them away frantically with the back of my hand. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be ridiculous."
"You're not ridiculous," James said, his dark eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs. "How long have you been working here?"
"Six months," I wiped my eyes again. "I do the late night sweep and scrub crew three nights a week. I have another job at a dry cleaner's on Cambridge Street during the day."
"Two jobs," James noted coldly. "And you still can't afford groceries?"
"My daughter had pneumonia in October," I explained, my voice barely above a whisper. "The hospital co-pays took everything I had saved. Then the landlord raised the rent on our studio apartment by two hundred dollars. I'm... I'm trying, Mr. Moretti. I swear I'm trying."
James didn't respond immediately. He leaned back against the leather booth seat, his arms crossing over his chest, his gaze shifting back to Chloe, who was already halfway through her bowl of pasta, her mouth smeared with red sauce.
"What's your full name?" he asked.
"Grace Bennett."
"And her father?"
"He's not in the picture," I said flatly. "He left before she was born."
James’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of cold fury passing through them so quickly I almost missed it. "A man who abandons his child isn't a man at all."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Where do you live, Grace?"
"A studio on East Hanover," I replied cautiously. "Near the harbor."
Marco, who was standing a few feet away near the entrance, cleared his throat. "Boss... Hanover Street? That's the Sullivan precinct. The buildings over there..." He hesitated, looking at James. "They're falling apart. The heating units in those tenements went out two days ago during the cold snap."
James’s jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth snap together. He looked at me. "Is your heat working?"
I bit my lower lip, unable to lie under the weight of his stare. "It's... it's a little cold. We have two heavy blankets."
James stood up abruptly. The sudden movement made me jump. He turned to Marco.
"Call Frank," James ordered, his voice dropping into a tone that admitted no debate. "Tell him to bring the Range Rover to the front doors. We're taking them home."
"Mr. Moretti, no!" I stood up, pushing myself out of the booth. "You've already done far too much. You cooked us dinner, you let us stay... I can walk us home. It's only six blocks."
James turned back to me. He stepped closer, his tall, imposing frame blocking out the light from the Christmas tree in the corner. Up close, he smelled of sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and garlic.
" Grace," he said quietly, his voice low and commandingly smooth. "It is fifteen degrees outside. There is a snowstorm hitting the bay. You are tired, your daughter is full, and your apartment has no heat. You are not walking six blocks tonight."
"I can't take charity from you," I whispered, holding my ground despite the instinct screaming at me to yield to him. "People like you... nothing is ever free."
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Marco stiffened behind him, his hand drifting toward his jacket.
But James didn't get angry. Instead, he looked at me with a strange, dark respect burning in his eyes.
"You're right," James murmured, stepping even closer, until his shoes touched mine. "Nothing in this world is free, Grace. But tonight isn't a business transaction. Tonight, I am making sure a six-year-old girl doesn't freeze on Christmas Eve."
May you like
He reached down and gently lifted Chloe from the booth. She didn't cry or pull away; she simply wrapped her small arms around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder, completely swallowed up by his large coat.
"Let's go," James said softly, looking over his shoulder at me. "Before the roads close."
