Chapter 3 - Dinner with Serpents
By 7:30 PM, the atmosphere in the Vale mansion had transformed from quiet solitude to high-tension containment. Black SUV with tinted windows lined the curved cobblestone driveway. Men in tailored dark suits with subtle bulges under their left arms were positioned at every entryway, their eyes scanning the perimeter with mechanical efficiency.
I stood in the butler’s pantry, smoothing down the front of a formal black serving dress that Marcus had handed me an hour earlier. It was simple, elegant, and fit remarkably well, replacing my usual burgundy housekeeping attire.
"Keep your chin up, eyes down, and don't pour the wine past the line on the crystal," Marcus advised, standing near the door with his arms crossed. For once, the security chief didn't have his usual smirk. "If things go sideways, don't run for the front door. Step into the butler’s pantry, drop behind the stainless steel counter, and wait for me."
"Is it really going to be that dangerous?" I asked, adjusting the silver tray in my hands.
"Julian Moretti doesn't bring four bodyguards to a 'friendly dinner' unless he intends to flex," Marcus said coldly. "Just do what Boss asked."
A chime echoed through the grand hallway. The guests had arrived.
I took a deep breath, centered myself, and pushed open the door to the formal dining room.
The space was dominated by a twenty-foot mahogany table set with sterling silver, crystal stemware, and flickering beeswax candles. At the head of the table sat Dominic, looking impossibly imposing in a crisp charcoal three-piece suit. Across from him sat Julian Moretti—a slick, sharp-featured man in his late fifties with silver hair swept back, wearing a diamond pinky ring that caught the candlelight.
Three heavily built men stood quietly along the perimeter wall behind Moretti, while Marcus stood behind Dominic.
"Dominic, my boy," Moretti boomed, his voice dripping with false warmth as he leaned back, swirling a glass of scotch. "You've done wonders with this place since your father passed. Though, I must say, it feels a bit... empty without family around."
Dominic took a slow sip of his water. "I prefer efficiency over noise, Julian. Let's talk about the shipping docks in Yonkers."
"Ah, straight to business as always," Moretti chuckled, though his eyes remained icy. "Always so formal. Can't a man enjoy his meal first?"
That was my cue. I stepped forward quietly with a bottle of a 1998 Barolo, moving gracefully to Moretti’s right side to refill his glass.
Moretti’s eyes slid over to me, lingering a second too long on my face before drifting down my outfit. "Well, well. You certainly upgraded the staff, Dominic. Where did you find this little bird?"
I kept my hands steady, pouring the dark red wine until it reached the exact line on the crystal glass. "Excuse me, sir," I said softly, stepping back.
Before I could retreat, Moretti reached out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, sticky, and uninvited.
"Not so fast, sweetheart," Moretti sneered, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and scotch. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't be serving drinks. Why don't you sit on my lap and tell me what Dominic pays you?"
Every muscle in my body froze. Panic flared in my chest.
Clack.
The sound of a heavy silver fork hitting a porcelain plate echoed through the dining room like a gunshot.
The entire room went dead silent.
I turned my head slightly. Dominic had dropped his fork. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't moved quickly. But the temperature in the room plummeted ten degrees instantly.
"Julian," Dominic said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, low vibration that caused the glass in my hands to rattle subtly. "Remove your hand from my employee."
Moretti scoffed, though I felt his fingers twitch against my wrist. "Come on, Dominic. It's a joke. You're getting soft in your old age—"
"I will not say it a second time," Dominic interrupted smoothly. He didn't look angry; he looked lethal. "Release her. Now."
Moretti’s bodyguards shifted slightly, their hands moving closer to their jackets. Marcus subtly slid his right hand behind his coat frame.
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathed.
Moretti slowly loosened his grip and let his hand drop back to the table, smiling thinly. "Touchy, touchy. My apologies, my dear."
"Rachel, step back," Dominic commanded quietly without looking away from Moretti.
I immediately retreated toward the sideboard, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Now," Dominic continued, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany table. "Let's discuss Yonkers. My logistics network handles seventy percent of the container traffic through that port. You want twenty percent off the top for 'protection.' I'm offering you zero."
Moretti’s smile vanished completely. "Zero? You think you can operate in my territory without paying respect?"
"It hasn't been your territory since 2022, Julian," Dominic replied coldly. "You lost the docks when your uncle mismanaged the union funds. I bought the debt. I own the leases. You are a guest at my table because I respect history, not because I need your permission."
Moretti’s face flushed dark red. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You talk brave for a man sitting in a house built on ghosts. You think having a clean operation makes you untouchable, Vale? I know about the federal inquiry into your freight manifests. I know who talked to the Assistant District Attorney last Tuesday."
Dominic’s expression didn't change, but I saw his knuckles whiten slightly against the table.
"Is that so?" Dominic murmured.
"It is," Moretti smirked, feeling he had regained the upper hand. "A man named Carter. Works in your primary distribution hub in Newark. Turns out he was very eager to sign a deposition in exchange for witness protection."
I stood near the sideboard, listening carefully as I pretended to organize the dessert plates. Carter. Newark distribution hub. Tuesday deposition. My mind snapped to a detail I had noticed two days ago while clearing out Dominic’s secondary office wastepaper basket—a discarded shipping manifest stamped with a red flag from the Newark depot, signed by a supervisor named Arthur Carter.
Moretti stood up, buttoning his jacket with exaggerated confidence. "Think about my offer, Dominic. Twenty percent, or that deposition hits the grand jury desk on Monday morning. I'll give you until midnight tomorrow to make the right choice."
Moretti gestured to his guards, turning on his heel to exit the room. The guards followed closely, leaving a trail of heavy tension in their wake.
Once the front doors slammed shut outside, silence returned to the mansion.
Marcus stepped up beside Dominic. "Boss, do you want me to locate Carter?"
"He's already in federal protective custody," Dominic said, his tone icy. "We can't touch him without provoking a full federal raid."
"Um... Mr. Vale?" I spoke up softly from the shadows of the sideboard.
Dominic turned his dark eyes toward me. The coldness in his face softened by an barely perceptible fraction. "Are you alright, Rachel?"
"I'm fine," I said quickly. "But... about Arthur Carter."
Dominic frowned slightly. "What about him?"
"He isn't in federal custody," I said clearly.
Marcus laughed dryly. "Rachel, with all due respect, Julian just confirmed—"
"Julian is lying," I interrupted, stepping closer to the table. "Or rather, he's using old information. Two days ago, while I was shredding duplicate files in your annex office, I saw a internal memo from your Newark HR department. Arthur Carter submitted a emergency medical leave request on Monday morning, listing an address in Montclair, New Jersey. But he also left a forwarding address for his pension statements—an apartment in Stamford, Connecticut."
Dominic stood up slowly, his tall frame blocking out the candlelight behind him. "Go on."
"If he were in federal protective custody," I explained, relying on my basic common sense, "he wouldn't be updating his HR pension dispatch forms with a real street address in Connecticut twenty-four hours before meeting the ADA. He isn't working with the feds. He's shaking Moretti down for cash, playing both sides, and getting ready to flee the country."
Dominic stared at me in complete silence for five long seconds. Marcus looked back and forth between me and his boss, his mouth slightly open.
Then, Dominic walked around the table until he was standing directly in front of me.
"You read his HR file?" Dominic asked, his voice deceptively quiet.
"I... I glanced at it while wiping down the shredder," I stammered, suddenly nervous again. "I have a good memory for details."
Dominic reached out, his long fingers gently catching my chin, tilting my face up so I had to look directly into his striking hazel eyes.
"You don't just clean, Rachel," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip. "You observe."
My breath hitched. The physical proximity was overwhelming.
"Marcus," Dominic said, without breaking eye contact with me.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Send a team to Stamford. Find Carter before midnight."
May you like
"Right away." Marcus turned and hurried out of the room, leaving us alone in the vast, candlelit dining hall.
Dominic leaned down slightly, his lips hovering inches from my ear. "It seems you've made yourself indispensable, Miss Bennett."
