Chapter 4 - The Eight-Language Contract
By 4:00 AM, the boardroom was cleared of blood, bloodthirsty mobsters, and traitors.
Maeve sat in a plush velvet chair across from Dominic Rossi, holding a hot porcelain cup of tea. Her hands were still red from scrubbing, but her posture was upright and proud.
Dominic poured himself two fingers of scotch.
"Eleven interpreters came through those doors tonight," Dominic said, leaning against his desk. "They had master's degrees from Oxford, security clearances, and years of experience. Yet a woman in an apron saved my brother's life and saved me from an ambush."
"Language isn't about degrees, Mr. Rossi," Maeve said, taking a sip of tea. "It's about listening to what people say when they think no one is paying attention."
Dominic pulled a leather-bound document from his desk drawer and pushed it across to her.
"What is this?" Maeve asked.
"An employment contract," Dominic replied. "As my personal advisor and chief linguist. Salary: five hundred thousand dollars a year, private housing, full security detail, and healthcare that will fix your knees."
Maeve stared at the contract, her heart pounding against her ribs. Five hundred thousand dollars. Freedom from eviction notices. Freedom from scrubbing floors until her joints bled.
"And what do you want in return?" Maeve asked carefully.
Dominic leaned in close, his dark eyes burning with an intense, unyielding light. "I want your eyes and your ears, Maeve. I am surrounded by sharks. I need someone who can hear the blood in the water before they strike."
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Maeve looked at the pen resting on the desk, then at the powerful mafia boss who was looking at her not as a servant, but as an equal.
She picked up the pen and signed her name.
