Chapter 4 - The Thirty-Second Floor
The elevator ride was silent, smooth, and fast.
When the glass doors slid open on the thirty-second floor, I stepped out into an office that looked like a modern fortress. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the river, the docks, and the sprawling city below. Deep leather sofas rested on dark hardwood floors, and the walls were lined with expensive black-and-white photographs of early twentieth-century port operations.
Alessandro Romano sat behind a massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room. He had discarded his coat, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms crossed over a stack of legal documents.
He didn't look up when the doors opened. “I told you I was busy, Victor.”
“It’s not Victor,” I said.
Alessandro froze. He slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin in the room.
He looked at my faded sneakers, my jeans, and the heavy envelope held firmly in my hand.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Or depositing a check.”
I walked across the hardwood floor, stopping directly in front of his desk. I set the linen envelope down on top of his legal documents.
“My mother taught me two things,” I said, staring straight into his eyes. “Never take what you haven't earned, and never owe a debt to a man who carries a gun.”
Alessandro looked down at the envelope, then back up at me. A slow, faint shadow of a smile touched the corner of his lips. “It wasn't a debt, Clara. It was a gesture.”
“I don't accept gestures from people who throw coffee cups at my head,” I retorted. “My rent is paid by my own hands. My mother’s medicine is paid by my own shifts. I don't need your blood money.”
Alessandro leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. He looked at me not as a mob boss looking at a waitress, but as a man studying an entirely new species.
“Your mother has pulmonary fibrosis,” Alessandro stated quietly.
I went rigid. “Have you been spying on me?”
“I don't spy,” he corrected calmly. “I verify. When a woman stands in front of three armed men and demands three dollars for a broken cup, I like to know what gives her that kind of nerve. You work sixty hours a week between the diner and a dry-cleaning shop on 4th Street. You sleep four hours a night. You’re drowning, Clara.”
“That’s my business!” I snapped, my voice trembling with sudden anger.
“It was,” Alessandro stood up from his chair, towering over the desk. “Until you refused ninety-seven dollars in my face. Nobody turns down my money. Nobody.”
“Then today is your lucky day,” I turned on my heel toward the elevator. “Keep your money, Mr. Romano. And stay out of my diner.”
“Clara,” his voice commanded from behind me.
I stopped at the elevator doors, my hand hovering over the button.
“Your mother’s doctor is Dr. Harrison at Saint Jude’s,” Alessandro said softly. “He’s a good doctor. But he’s not the best. I own the pediatric and pulmonary wing at Ochsner Medical Center. Dr. Vance is the top specialist in the Southeast. He will see her tomorrow morning.”
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I turned around slowly, my heart pounding in my throat. “I can't afford Ochsner.”
“It’s already paid for,” Alessandro said, walking around his desk, stopping five feet from me. “No cash in an envelope. No charity. A simple professional referral from a man whose cup you fixed.”
