Chapter 7 - Table Four
The corner booth was cast in deep shadows, secluded from the rest of the empty room by velvet drapery.
Arthur Moretti sat alone. The glass of scotch he had ordered hours earlier was still untouched, resting squarely in the center of the dark wood table like a monument to patience. His guards were stationed near the front entrance, their silhouettes rigid against the glass facade.
As I approached, Arthur didn't look up immediately. He slowly traced the rim of his crystal glass with a scarred thumb.
“You’re punctual,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that cut effortlessly through the quiet restaurant.
“You told me to come here when I clocked out,” I replied, keeping my hands clasped loosely in front of my black uniform skirt. I didn't sit down; I wasn't invited to. “I’m here. What do you want, Mr. Moretti?”
Arthur finally lifted his head. His winter-ocean gray eyes swept over my face, taking in the faint dark circles under my eyes and the rigid tension in my posture.
“You aren't asking the right question, Clara,” he said softly.
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“And what’s the right question?”
“You should be asking why a man like me cares that a low-life junkie was bruising your arm in my favorite restaurant,” Arthur replied, leaning back against the velvet cushion. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a manila folder, sliding it across the polished table toward me.
