Chapter 5 - The Moretti Betrayal
The safe-deposit box contained three things.
A ledger.
A cassette tape.
And a letter addressed to Dominic.
He stared at his name.
“I was born after Agatha disappeared from my father's life.”
Salvatore nodded.
“She knew you would inherit everything.”
Dominic opened the letter.
I watched his eyes move across the page.
“What does it say?”
He handed it to me.
Agatha had written:
Dominic, if you are reading this, then Salvatore finally learned that blood does not always mean loyalty.
Below that was a name.
Anthony Moretti.
Dominic's uncle.
The man sitting at Bellafonte earlier that night.
Dominic looked at his father.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“You invited him to dinner.”
“I wanted to see whether Agatha's name frightened him.”
“And?”
Salvatore smiled coldly.
“He left before dessert.”
Dominic grabbed his phone.
“Find Anthony.”
Ten minutes later, the answer came.
Anthony Moretti was gone.
So were several company files.
Dominic cursed.
I looked through the ledger.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“These numbers.”
Dominic came closer.
“They're account codes.”
“No. They're reservation dates.”
“What?”
“I've seen this format.”
I turned the ledger around.
“Bellafonte uses a six-digit internal event code. These are private dining reservations.”
Dominic stared at the page.
“For thirty years?”
“Different restaurants. Same system.”
Salvatore understood first.
“Meetings.”
I nodded.
“Agatha wasn't tracking money.”
“She was tracking people,” Dominic said.
Names appeared beside dates.
Judges.
Developers.
Business owners.
Politicians.
And Anthony Moretti.
Again and again.
Dominic looked at his father.
“This could destroy half the family.”
“No,” Salvatore said.
“It can save the half worth saving.”
The next morning, Dominic gathered his senior people at Moretti headquarters.
I wasn't supposed to attend.
Salvatore insisted.
Anthony appeared by video call.
“You've embarrassed this family,” Anthony told Dominic.
Dominic sat at the head of the table.
“No. You did.”
“You believe some waitress?”
I leaned toward the microphone.
“Technically, I'm currently unemployed.”
Salvatore coughed to hide a laugh.
Anthony's face twisted.
“This is family business.”
Dominic's expression turned cold.
“You forfeited that argument when your people broke into her home.”
“I never ordered that.”
“Martin did.”
“Martin is an idiot.”
“An idiot who worked for you.”
Anthony went silent.
Dominic placed Agatha's ledger on the table.
“I have everything.”
Anthony's confidence disappeared.
“You don't know what you're reading.”
“Penelope does.”
Anthony looked at me.
“You have no idea who you're dealing with.”
I leaned closer.
“That's what Martin thought.”
Dominic looked sideways at me.
A tiny smile appeared.
Anthony noticed.
That made him angrier.
“You're letting a waitress influence you?”
Dominic's smile disappeared.
“No.”
He placed his hand on the ledger.
“I'm letting evidence influence me.”
Salvatore leaned forward.
“And I am letting thirty years of patience end.”
Anthony disconnected.
Dominic immediately issued orders.
Not violent ones.
Auditors.
Attorneys.
Security changes.
Bank freezes.
Business reviews.
For forty-eight hours, the Moretti organization tore itself apart on paper.
Anthony's hidden companies surfaced.
Millions had been diverted.
Martin had helped falsify restaurant expenses for years.
By Friday morning, Dominic had enough evidence to remove both men permanently from every legitimate Moretti business.
Martin was also facing criminal charges for the burglary and financial fraud.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I was unemployed.
Again.
I found Dominic alone inside Bellafonte Friday afternoon.
“You won,” I said.
He looked up.
“We survived.”
“Same thing in your world?”
“Rarely.”
I placed my apron on the table.
“Martin's gone. I assume Bellafonte will hire another manager.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I turned toward the door.
“Penelope.”
I stopped.
“Where are you going?”
“To find a job.”
“I offered you one.”
“You offered me a mysterious mafia hospitality position.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Mafia hospitality?”
“You need better branding.”
Dominic laughed.
Then he became serious.
“Director of Guest Experience.”
I stared at him.
“For seventeen restaurants?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You said seventeen.”
“I acquired six this morning.”
“Of course you did.”
“Salary is one hundred and twenty thousand.”
I stopped breathing for approximately three seconds.
Dominic noticed.
“Too low?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I don't want charity.”
His expression hardened.
“Neither do I.”
He slid a folder across the table.
Inside were reports.
My customer reviews.
Wine certifications.
Sales numbers.
Training evaluations.
“You investigated me?”
“I researched a candidate.”
“This goes back four years.”
“You're thorough.”
“You're terrifying.”
“I've heard that.”
I closed the folder.
“Why me?”
Dominic looked at me.
“Because everyone in my world tells powerful people what they want to hear.”
“And?”
“You walked into a room where you weren't wanted and told my father his fennel was wrong.”
I smiled.
“It was wrong.”
May you like
“Exactly.”
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