Chapter 2 - The Name on the Lease
Emily stood at the service bar, her hands shaking as she poured hot water into a silver teapot. She could feel Vanessa’s presence behind her before she heard her voice.
"Don't bother bringing that out," Vanessa said, her voice a low, jagged hiss. "I’ve already called the downtown security patrol. They’re going to remove him for vagrancy and loitering. As for you, Emily, your final check will be mailed to your address on file minus the cost of the uniform you just ruined by throwing it on the floor."
"The uniform isn't ruined, Vanessa," Emily said, not looking at her as she placed the silver teapot on a serving tray. "And he’s a paying customer. He ordered tea."
"He's a nobody," Vanessa snapped, stepping in front of the tray to block her path. "He’s an eyesore. Look at his coat! Look at those boots! This is Bellavere! We host the mayor, the governors, the federal judges! We don't host factory workers playing daddy on a snowy Tuesday!"
"He isn't a factory worker," a new voice said.
The voice was old, gravelly, and carried the unmistakable weight of absolute authority. Vanessa froze, her face turning instantly into a mask of professional sycophancy as she turned to face Dominic Moretti. The old Don had walked over from his central table, his three bodyguards hovering two steps behind him like dark shadows.
"Mr. Moretti!" Vanessa gasped, her voice instantly dropping an octave into a honeyed purr. "I am so sorry for the disturbance. We’re having an issue with a trespasser and an insubordinate staff member. I’m having them both removed immediately so you can enjoy your dinner in peace."
Moretti didn't look at Vanessa. He looked at the silver tray Emily was holding. Then he looked through the kitchen doors at the chef, who had stopped working to watch through the glass panel.
"You're an idiot, Vanessa," Moretti said softly.
Vanessa blinked, her smile faltering. "I... I beg your pardon, Mr. Moretti?"
"I said you're an idiot," the old boss repeated, stepping closer until Vanessa had to back into the ice machine. "You’ve been running this room for three years like you own the brick and the mortar. You think because you know which wine goes with the duck that you’re part of the upper crust. But you don't know nothing about this city. And you don't know nothing about who owns the roof over your head."
Moretti turned his head slowly, looking toward the corner table where the tall man was currently pouring a small amount of sugar into his empty cup, his movements calm and entirely undisturbed by the tension in the room.
"That man out there," Moretti said, his voice dropping into a rough, respectful growl, "is Julian Vance."
Vanessa’s face went entirely blank. "Vance? The... the corporate restructuring lawyer?"
"He ain't a lawyer," Moretti sneered. "Ten years ago, the Vance family owned every shipping container that came through the Great Lakes. When his father died, the corporate board tried to squeeze Julian out. They thought he was too quiet. They thought because he spent his time reading books and drawing plans that he didn't have the stomach for the family business."
Moretti took a deep breath, his hand moving to adjust his gold cufflinks. "Julian took three months. By the time he was done, half the board was in federal prison for tax evasion, two of them had jumped off the Michigan Avenue bridge, and the rest of them sold him their shares for a dollar a piece. He doesn't just own the shipping lines, Vanessa. He owns the Vance Capital Group. Which means... he owns the commercial lease for this entire block. Including this restaurant."
Vanessa’s knees seemed to give way slightly. She gripped the edge of the service bar, her knuckles turning a pasty white. "He... he owns Bellavere?"
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"He bought the ground debt two years ago," Moretti said, a cruel, satisfied smile breaking across his old face as he watched her collapse. "The management company you work for answers to a board in New York. And that board answers to him. You just refused a table to the man who can turn this place into a parking lot by signing his name on a piece of scrap paper."
Moretti turned to Emily, his heavy eyes softening into something resembling genuine respect. "Bring the tea, kid. And bring another cup. The Don is going to pay his respects."
