Chapter 3 - The Weight of an Honest Day
By 5:00 PM, the fourth-floor bullpens of Moretti Logistics were a hive of exhausted activity. Telephones rang in rhythmic succession; couriers rushed in and out with signed manifests; and the hum of fluorescent lights seemed to vibrate against the back of everyone's neck.
Emily had not looked up from her screen in two hours. She had cross-referenced three hundred container entries, reconciled a discrepancy in dock-fee ledgers that had baffled the previous coordinator for a week, and organized the morning shipping schedules into a color-coded master sheet that sat neatly on Thomas Vance’s desk.
Thomas walked out of his corner office, holding her audit report with a look of profound astonishment. He stopped beside her desk and laid the papers down.
"Ms. Vance," Thomas said, loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. "In the three years I've managed this department, no one—not even senior coordinators—has caught the duplicate tariff codes in dock seven. You saved us roughly forty thousand dollars in misallocated port fees on your very first day."
Around her, several coworkers paused typing and looked over with expressions ranging from surprise to reluctant respect.
Emily felt a flush of heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her voice calm. "Thank you, Mr. Vance. It's just basic reconciliation."
"No," Thomas said with a dry chuckle. "That's not basic reconciliation. That's elite-level accounting hidden behind an administrative desk job. Pack up your things for today. You’ve earned your paycheck three times over. Tomorrow, we start you on the international freight pipeline."
As Thomas walked away, Emily exhaled a breath she felt she had been holding since she walked through the doors that morning. She shut down her terminal, gathered her bag, and walked out into the corridor.
When she reached the lobby, a sleek black town car was parked idling curbside in the drizzle. The rear window rolled down half an inch, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of Dominic Moretti sitting in the back seat. He didn't wave, and he didn't call her over. He merely looked toward her for one brief second, his eyes acknowledging her presence with a silent nod, before the window glided back up and the car pulled smoothly away into the evening traffic.
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Emily stood on the pavement, her heart skipping a beat. He hadn't checked in on her through Thomas. He hadn't sent a message. He had simply watched to make sure she walked out of that building under her own power.
She turned toward the subway station, her step lighter than it had been in months. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like she was standing on solid ground.
