Chapter 3 - The Cold War of Boston
By ten o'clock the next morning, news of the incident at St. Cordova had spread through the private dining rooms and executive suites of Boston’s financial district like a quiet contagion.
In the mahogany-paneled office of Marquetti Enterprises overlooking the harbor, Arthur Marquetti sat behind his desk, staring at his daughter with a face the color of wet slate.
Celeste paced back and forth across the Persian rug, holding an ice pack against her swollen eyes. She had spent the night crying out of pure humiliation, but by morning, her tears had hardened into bitter indignation.
“He threw me out, Father!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the framed newspaper clippings of her family’s past achievements. “Over a servant! A nobody who spilled wine on my dress! He had his bodyguards drag me past fifty people!”
Arthur didn't yell. He was sixty-two years old, his hair thinning, his cheeks hollow from six months of losing battles against bankruptcy. He looked at his daughter with a coldness that made her stop pacing.
“Do you know who that woman was, Celeste?” Arthur asked softly.
Celeste scowled. “Some pregnant waitress from the North End.”
Arthur picked up a printed sheet of paper from his desk—a report sent to him at six in the morning by a contact within the city police department.
“Her name is Adriana Voss,” Arthur said. “She is the widow of Eli Voss.”
Celeste blinked, her brow furrowing. “Who is Eli Voss?”
Arthur slammed his hand down on the desk so hard the desk lamp rattled. “Eli Voss was Damon Calas’s right hand! He was the man who took two bullets in a warehouse in Chelsea six months ago to keep Damon alive! He was the only man Damon Calas ever called a brother!”
Celeste’s face lost every drop of color. The ice pack slipped from her fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud. “What?”
“You didn't just slap a waitress, you fool,” Arthur whispered, standing up slowly, his hands trembling. “You struck the widow of the man who saved Damon’s life. You touched the child that carries Eli Voss’s blood. In Damon Calas’s house.”
“He... he didn't tell me,” Celeste stammered, her voice suddenly small and fragile. “She didn't have a ring on! She was wearing an apron!”
“Damon Calas called off our restructuring deal at five this morning,” Arthur continued, his voice dropping into absolute despair. “By seven, three of our primary lenders called in their short-term notes. By eight, the city inspectors arrived at our hotel on Bay Park and cited thirty structural violations. By nine, our construction crew on the harbor project walked off the site because their insurance bonds were revoked.”
Arthur walked around the desk until he stood directly in front of his daughter. He looked broken.
“In four hours, Damon Calas has erased forty percent of our family’s net worth,” Arthur said. “By tonight, we will be ruined.”
Celeste began to shake. “Father... we can call the police, we can file an injunction—”
“Call the police?” Arthur laughed bitterly. “Against Damon Calas? Half the judges in Suffolk County sat at his private table last week. The mayor calls him for advice on port logistics. You think the law will protect us from a man whose debt is written in blood?”
He pointed toward the door.
“Get your coat,” Arthur commanded.
May you like
Celeste stared at him. “Where are we going?”
“We are going to Beacon Hill,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “You are going to kneel on Damon Calas’s front steps, and you are going to beg that widow for forgiveness. Because if she doesn't forgive you, we will be sleeping in our cars by Friday.”
