Chapter 4 - The Background Check
I didn't flinch. I took a slow sip of the Barolo, letting the rich, dry wine coat my tongue before setting the glass down.
“If I were an FBI informant, Mr. Russo, do you really think I’d be scrubbing grease off the tile floors of your restaurant every Tuesday through Sunday for fourteen dollars an hour?” I asked, my voice dry and sharp. “Federal agencies pay overtime. Your restaurant pays minimum wage plus two dollars if the Sunday brunch crowd is feeling generous.”
A sharp bark of genuine laughter escaped Dominic’s lips.
“Fair point,” he admitted, leaning forward again. He picked up my fountain pen—the same one I had pulled from my apron minutes earlier—and turned it over in his large hands. “Parker Duofold. Vintage nineteen-nineties. Hard to find. Expensive nib.”
“My father left it to me before he passed,” I said quietly. “He taught history at Ohio State. He was the one who taught me how to read treaties before I could read children’s books. He always said the most dangerous weapon in the world isn't a gun; it’s a poorly translated paragraph signed by men who think they're smarter than the language.”
Dominic fell silent. He looked down at the pen, his expression softening for a fraction of a second—a fleeting glimpse of a human being buried beneath the ruthless reputation of a New York syndicate boss.
“Your father was a smart man,” Dominic murmured. He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a thick checkbook, and uncapped a heavy gold pen of his own. “What’s your mother’s full name?”
“Mary Miller.”
Dominic began writing, the scratch of his pen filling the quiet office. He tore the slip of paper out, slid it across the mahogany surface, and turned it toward me.
I looked down.
It wasn't twelve thousand dollars.
It was fifty thousand.
“Mr. Russo,” I said, looking up sharply. “This is too much. I only asked for what was needed for the registry—”
“Consider it a retainer, Miss Miller,” Dominic interrupted, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute finality. “Because as of tonight, you are no longer a waitress at Maison Étoile. You are my chief linguistic and legal compliance consultant. Which means you work for me.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I am a doctoral student at Columbia. I am finishing my dissertation. I cannot become a criminal fixer for the New York mafia.”
“Who said anything about crime?” Dominic asked smoothly, standing up from his desk and buttoning his suit jacket. “I’m a legitimate businessman, Casey. I just happen to have very clumsy lawyers who miss archaic postwar European trade clauses. You’re going to help me keep my business clean. And in return, your mother’s medical bills are paid in full, starting tonight.”
May you like
Before I could process the surreal gravity of what had just happened, a frantic, violent pounding erupted on the heavy oak door behind me.
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