Chapter 4 - The Ledger of Debt
Danny Porter was standing by the reception desk, his mouth half-open, holding a clipboard as if it were a life raft. Director Cowell was twenty feet away, red-faced and sputtering, his finger jammed toward the exit as if he could banish her by sheer bureaucratic will.
“You’re fired,” Cowell hissed as Tessa walked past. “I’m calling Guardian corporate myself. I’m having your supervisor pull your commercial license for reckless endangerment on state-licensed property.”
Tessa didn't slow down. She grabbed her two empty cardboard boxes from the floor where she’d dropped them thirty minutes ago, stacked them neatly under her arm, and looked the director dead in the eye.
“Tell Gary at dispatch I said hi,” she said. “He’s been trying to find an excuse to fire me since November so he doesn’t have to pay out my holiday bonus anyway.”
She pushed through the heavy glass double doors of the shelter into the crisp, biting air of late March. The sun was sitting low over the pine ridge, casting long blue shadows across the gravel parking lot where her rusted 2011 Ford Ranger sat idling, its exhaust pipe puffing little gray clouds into the frozen air.
As she pulled her door open, a black town car—matte finish, tinted glass, no plates—pulled up beside her truck with barely a whisper from its tires.
The rear window slid down two inches.
Dante Salvatore’s face appeared in the gap. The iron-shaving hair caught the pale afternoon light, and his river-water eyes were locked on her face.
“Get in,” he said.
“I have thirty-one stops left,” Tessa said, tossing her empty boxes into the passenger seat of the Ranger.
“You have zero stops left,” Dante corrected. “I just bought your route.”
Tessa stopped with her hand on the truck door handle. She turned slowly, her breath pluming white between them in the freezing air. “You what?”
“I bought the franchise rights for Guardian Shipping’s western district six minutes ago,” Dante said, his voice entirely devoid of humor. “The regional manager took my wire transfer before I finished my sentence. As of noon today, your truck belongs to me. And I’m telling you to take the rest of the day off.”
Tessa stared at him. For the first time all morning, a crack appeared in her composure. Her mouth parted slightly.
“You bought a shipping franchise... to clear my schedule?”
“I bought a shipping franchise because I don't like my brother’s killer walking around free, and I don't like being told by delivery drivers what my legal obligations are,” Dante said smoothly. “Get in the car, Miss Rivera. We’re going to get some coffee. And then you’re going to tell me how you plan to get a one-hundred-and-forty-pound blind Mastiff out of a state-licensed medical facility without getting both of us arrested.”
Tessa looked from the sleek black town car to her sputtering, rust-flecked Ford Ranger. The heater in the Ford had stopped working three weeks ago, rattling like a tin can full of bolts whenever she hit forty miles an hour.
She slammed the truck door shut, walked around the hood, and pulled open the rear door of the town car.
The interior smelled of rich leather, expensive pipe tobacco, and cedar. The heated seats immediately began to thaw the chill in her thighs through her denim jeans. She settled back against the headrest, crossing her arms over her faded T-shirt.
“There’s a diner three miles down Route 2,” Tessa said, her voice dry as parchment. “They serve coffee that tastes like burnt rubber and pie that’ll shorten your lifespan by six months. If you’re going to play mob boss in my county, Salvatore, you might as well start with the local cuisine.”
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Dante didn't turn around from the front seat, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just a fraction of an inch—before he tapped the glass divider to signal the driver.
“Drive,” Dante said.
