Chapter 1 - Thirty-Five Cents
I was thirty-five cents short of lunch.
That sounds like the beginning of a joke until you're the one sitting at a scratched wooden table, counting coins for the second time because you're hoping arithmetic might take pity on you.
It didn't.
I had a dollar forty-five.
The half-sandwich special at Red & Ready cost a dollar eighty.
Thirty-five cents.
That was the distance between me and lunch.
I'd spent the morning cleaning twelve rooms at the Grand Harbor Hotel. Twelve bathrooms. Twelve tubs. Twelve beds made so tightly that our floor supervisor liked to joke you could bounce a quarter off them.
I remember thinking that if I'd been allowed to keep one of those quarters, I'd almost have been able to afford the sandwich.
Almost.
My back hurt. My fingers smelled faintly of bleach even after washing them twice. A strand of dark hair had escaped the messy knot on top of my head and kept sticking to my cheek.
I stared at the money in my palm.
Four quarters.
Three dimes.
Two nickels.
Five pennies.
A dollar forty-five.
I had counted it twice.
Then a third time.
There are moments when poverty isn't dramatic.
Nobody is standing in the rain.
Nobody is giving a speech.
Nobody is playing sad music.
You're just sitting in a deli on a Tuesday afternoon trying to decide whether you're hungry enough to spend money you need for the bus ride home.
I pushed the coins back into my blue pouch.
A day-old roll was cheaper.
That would do.
I stood.
And the deli went silent.
Not quieter.
Silent.
I noticed because Red & Ready was never silent.
There was always Sal Marino arguing with someone over an order, the hiss of meat on the grill, coffee cups knocking against saucers, somebody talking too loudly about baseball.
But suddenly all I heard was the hum of the refrigerator.
The bell above the entrance gave a tired little jangle.
A man walked inside.
He wore a navy suit that probably cost more than I earned in two months.
Maybe three.
He was in his early forties, broad through the shoulders, with dark hair brushed back from a face that looked carved rather than handsome. A thin line near his jaw suggested an old scar.
He didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
People noticed him anyway.
Sal stopped slicing pastrami.
“Mr. Moretti.”
I knew the name.
Everyone did.
Vincent Moretti.
Moretti Logistics.
Moretti Hospitality.
Warehouses.
Restaurants.
Commercial property.
The Moretti Foundation.
And stories.
Always stories.
Some said he had inherited a legitimate business and spent twenty years making it larger.
Others lowered their voices when they said his name.
I had no idea which version was true.
I only knew that a black SUV was idling outside and Sal suddenly looked like he'd forgotten how breathing worked.
Vincent lifted one hand.
“Relax.”
Sal somehow looked even more nervous.
I should have walked out.
Instead, I made the mistake of glancing toward Vincent.
He was already looking at me.
More specifically, at my table.
I followed his gaze.
My empty coffee.
The little blue pouch.
A nickel I'd apparently missed when putting away my coins.
I grabbed it.
Too late.
Vincent looked at Sal.
“The sandwich special.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Soup.”
“Yes.”
“Real soup.”
Sal blinked.
“Yes.”
“Fruit.”
“Yes.”
Then Vincent looked at me.
“And whatever she wants.”
I stood straighter.
“No.”
Sal made a sound somewhere between a cough and a prayer.
Vincent turned toward me fully.
His eyes were dark.
But not cruel.
Attentive.
That was somehow worse.
“I can pay for my own food,” I said.
Vincent glanced at the table.
There was no mockery in his expression.
“I didn't say you couldn't.”
“Then we're in agreement.”
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then something almost like amusement touched his face.
Almost.
“What is your name?”
“Ava.”
“Ava what?”
“Why?”
Sal closed his eyes.
Vincent actually smiled.
Barely.
“Because usually when I offer someone lunch, they don't interrogate me.”
“Usually when strangers buy women lunch, they want something.”
His smile disappeared.
Not because he was angry.
Because he was considering the statement.
“Fair.”
He nodded toward an empty booth.
“Then don't consider it charity. Consider it conversation.”
“I don't need conversation.”
“Everybody needs conversation.”
“I need thirty-five cents.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
My face burned.
Vincent's eyes moved to the pouch.
I hated the pity I expected to see.
It never came.
Instead he asked, “You work nearby?”
“Grand Harbor.”
One of his eyebrows shifted.
“The hotel?”
“Yes.”
His hotel.
I had known Moretti Hospitality owned the Grand Harbor, but until that moment I'd never connected the logo on my paycheck to the man standing in front of me.
Vincent's expression became sharper.
“What department?”
“Housekeeping.”
“How long?”
“Eleven months.”
“And you're thirty-five cents short of lunch?”
I crossed my arms.
“Those things aren't necessarily connected.”
“No?”
“No. Maybe I'm terrible with money.”
“Are you?”
I stared at him.
He waited.
“No.”
“How many hours this week?”
“That's none of your business.”
“It literally might be.”
That irritated me more than it should have.
I reached into my work bag.
“Fine.”
I pulled out the folded pay envelope I'd received that morning.
“I worked forty-six hours last week.”
Vincent held out his hand.
I didn't give him the envelope.
Instead I opened it myself.
“My check says thirty-seven and a half.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Maybe payroll hasn't added—”
“Third week.”
That stopped him.
I unfolded another pay stub.
Then another.
I had kept them because the numbers bothered me.
I'd asked my supervisor twice.
Both times I'd been told the hotel's new timekeeping system sometimes adjusted hours based on approved schedules.
Which made no sense.
If I cleaned a room, I had worked.
Computers didn't get to decide otherwise.
Vincent held out his hand again.
This time I gave him the papers.
He read the first.
Then the second.
His face changed.
Very slightly.
He sat down.
That worried me more than if he'd shouted.
“Sit,” he said.
“I thought this was lunch.”
“It is.”
He pulled the chair opposite him out with one hand.
“And now it's also an audit.”
I sat because suddenly I wanted answers more than I wanted pride.
Sal brought food so quickly I wondered if he'd already prepared it.
Sandwich.
Soup.
Fruit.
Vincent didn't touch his.
He kept studying my pay stubs.
“When does your shift officially begin?”
“Seven.”
“When do you arrive?”
“Six forty-five.”
“Required?”
“We have to collect supplies before seven.”
“Paid?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“When do you finish?”
“Whenever the rooms are done.”
“And your clock-out time?”
“Usually whatever the schedule says.”
“Not when you actually finish?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“How many housekeepers?”
“On my team? Twenty-three.”
“Do their checks look like this?”
I didn't answer.
That was apparently answer enough.
Vincent set the papers down.
“Ava.”
“What?”
“How many people have complained?”
“Plenty.”
“To whom?”
“Our supervisor. Payroll. HR.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
The deli suddenly felt warmer.
Vincent tapped one of the deductions.
“What is ‘operational adjustment’?”
I laughed once.
“If you find out, tell me.”
“How much?”
“Changes every week.”
“Uniform?”
“Comes separately.”
“Meals?”
“We don't get meals.”
“Transportation?”
“No.”
His eyes lifted.
“Then what is it?”
“That's what we've been asking.”
Vincent stopped tapping the paper.
For the first time since he'd entered, the calmness around him seemed less effortless.
Not anger.
Something colder.
Calculation.
He looked toward the windows, then back at me.
“Do you have copies?”
“These are copies.”
“Where are the originals?”
“At home.”
“Good.”
That single word made me uneasy.
“Why?”
“Because you're keeping them.”
“I wasn't planning on throwing away evidence.”
His attention snapped back to me.
“Evidence?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe that's a dramatic word.”
“No.”
He looked at the stack again.
“It might be exactly the right word.”
My hunger disappeared.
Vincent took his phone out, then stopped before dialing.
“Does anyone know you're keeping these?”
“My friend Lena.”
“Coworker?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone in management?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
I stared at him.
“I don't take orders from you.”
“You work for my company.”
“I clean rooms for your company. That's not the same thing.”
A strange silence passed between us.
Then he nodded.
“Fair.”
He slid my papers back.
“Don't give these to anyone.”
“You just told me not to take orders.”
“Consider this advice.”
“Why?”
He looked at the three pay stubs.
Then at the lunch I couldn't afford.
“Because if the numbers are what I think they are, someone has been stealing from you.”
I swallowed.
“We already knew that.”
Vincent shook his head slowly.
“No.”
His voice dropped.
“You knew someone was stealing from employees.”
He pointed at the Moretti Hospitality logo printed at the top of my paycheck.
“I just learned someone may have been stealing from me too.”
I looked down.
At the bottom of the newest statement was something I'd barely noticed before.
A payroll authorization code.
Two letters.
RM.
Vincent saw them at exactly the same moment.
Every trace of expression disappeared from his face.
“You recognize that?” I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he folded the pay stub once.
Carefully.
“Yes.”
“Who is RM?”
Vincent looked across the deli at me.
And for the first time, the powerful man everyone else feared looked genuinely unsettled.
“My brother.”
May you like
And that was the moment thirty-five cents stopped being about lunch.
---
