Chapter 9 - The Ledger Complete
The back room of Castellano’s was warm, smelling of fresh espresso and lemon peel that Angela had sliced for Vincent’s after-dinner drink.
Amelia sat at the small wooden table in the corner, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a dull, thrumming ache in her muscles, but the cold thing in her chest was completely gone—replaced by something solid, heavy, and unbreakable.
Vincent walked in, carrying a manila folder marked with red ink. He sat down opposite her and slid the folder across the table.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Your name on the deed," Vincent said simply.
Amelia looked up, startled. "Mr. Castellano—"
"Vincent," he corrected gently. "The restaurant is incorporated under a holding company called A&V Holdings. Fifty-one percent is mine. Forty-nine percent is yours. Effective as of five minutes ago when I signed the papers with the notary down on Bainbridge."
She stared at him, her heart skipping a beat. "Why?"
"Because Castellano’s needs someone who knows how to balance a ledger," Vincent said, taking a sip of his espresso. "And because I don't have any children who know the difference between an asset and a liability. More importantly... because you earned it, child. You took a house that was falling apart at the corners and you put iron in the foundation."
Amelia opened the folder. Inside was the legal document bearing her name—Amelia Hayes, Managing Partner. No maiden name. No reference to Kensington. No trace of the girl who had climbed onto a Greyhound bus with a bruised jaw and fifty dollars in her pocket.
"Raymond won't come back," Vincent added, seeing the small shadow that still lingered in her eyes. "Nobody comes back after they meet Marcus and the tax man. It's bad for their health."
Amelia looked up from the paper, a slow, genuine smile touching her lips—the first one she had given anyone since she walked through those doors three months ago.
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"Thank you, Vincent."
"Don't thank me yet," the old man grunted, standing up and buttoning his vest. "Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, the fishmonger from the Italian Market is coming by to try and short us ten pounds of sea bass on the weekly invoice. I expect you to be at your desk with your red pen ready."
