Chapter 4 - The Late Night Tea
Three weeks after the incident at the rail yard, close to 3:00 a.m. on a freezing Thursday night, the eighteenth floor of the Castellano corporate building was completely deserted.
In the executive outer office, Josie was still sitting at her desk. A refrigerated-warehouse renewal contract had to be submitted to city attorneys before 9:00 a.m., and the stack of documents before her was nearly sixteen inches high.
Her eyes ached under the harsh fluorescent lights, but her fingers moved steadily, double-checking every serial number and stamping the margins with her private coding system.
When she finished the final page, she compiled the documents into a heavy manila folder and walked down the quiet, carpeted hallway toward Rafe’s private office.
The lights inside were still on, warm illumination spilling through the frosted glass door.
Josie pushed the door open quietly. "Mr. Castellano, the lease agreements are ready..."
She stopped at the threshold.
Rafferty Castellano had fallen asleep in his high-backed leather armchair beside the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the sleeping city skyline.
His dark suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair, his tie loosened at his collar. His right hand—the one bearing the jagged scar across the palm—was gripping the armrest hard enough to expose the prominent veins beneath his skin.
He was not sleeping peacefully.
His breathing was fast and shallow. His broad brow was drawn tight with pain, trapped in the clutches of a silent, violent nightmare.
Josie stood frozen.
For five years, she had understood the strict, unspoken rules of the eighteenth floor: no one was ever supposed to witness Rafferty Castellano without his guard in place. She should have placed the folder on the reception desk, stepped back into the elevator, and gone home.
Instead, for several silent seconds, she remained still, watching him.
She did not see the feared mob boss whose name lowered voices throughout the city. She saw a profoundly lonely man fighting private demons alone at an hour when no one else remained awake.
Moving with absolute silence, Josie placed the file quietly on his mahogany desk.
She walked down to the small breakroom kitchen on the floor below. From the top cabinet, she pulled out a box of chamomile tea—a brand she had bought with her own money for nights when double shifts forced her to stay awake until dawn.
She boiled water, steeped a fresh mug, and allowed it to cool until it was warm rather than scalding.
Carrying the porcelain cup back upstairs, she walked quietly into his office and set it beside Rafe’s chair, carefully turning the handle toward his right hand.
She left no note. She made no sound.
At 3:45 a.m., Rafe woke with a start, his dark eyes instantly sweeping the room.
The office was empty. The city outside was quiet.
Then his eyes fell on the small table beside his chair. Steam was rising softly from a dark, chipped ceramic mug.
Rafe sat motionless for a long moment. He reached out, his scarred fingers touching the warm porcelain.
Forty-two people worked beneath his authority in that building. Not a single one would normally have dared enter his private office while he slept.
Rafe stood up and walked to the doorway. At the far end of the dim corridor, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a slight figure in long sleeves disappearing into the stairwell without looking back.
The following morning, the empty teacup remained on Rafe’s desk.
When Sunny Falco entered carrying the morning security reports, Rafe was standing by the window, holding the empty mug in his hand.
"Sunny," Rafe asked, his voice quiet. "How long has my secretary worked here?"
Sunny blinked, surprised by the sudden question. "Josie? Five years, boss. She started in basement records and spent the last three years up here on the eighteenth floor."
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Rafe turned the ceramic mug slowly in his hands.
For five years, she had arrived early, placed perfectly organized files on his desk, and departed without ever speaking a word more than necessary. For the first time in those five years, Rafferty Castellano realized with a sudden pang of guilt that he could not clearly remember the face of the woman who served him every day.
