Chapter 2 - The Man at the Back of the Room
Dante Moretti was tall—broad-shouldered and imposing enough that his shadow completely covered both me and Jamie.
His dark eyes traveled down to Jamie, who was looking up at him with wide, curious eyes, still clinging tightly to his yellow blanket.
Dante reached out one large hand. His knuckles were calloused, decorated with faint scars that suggested a life far removed from air-conditioned corporate offices. He gently touched the edge of Jamie’s yellow flannel blanket, feeling the rough hand-stitching I had done by candlelight.
“Where did you keep him during your shift?” Dante asked.
His voice was a deep baritone—low, calm, and completely unbothered by Celestine’s theatrical judgment.
“In the linen supply room off the second-floor corridor,” I answered, my voice steady despite the adrenaline pounding in my ears. “I brought his portable crib, his monitor, and his bottles. I checked on him every twenty minutes between cleaning suites.”
“Did he ever cry?” Dante asked.
“No,” I said softly. “He’s a quiet baby. He likes looking at the light through the window.”
Dante nodded slowly. He turned his head and looked at Celestine.
Celestine stepped forward, her posture rigid. “Mr. Moretti, Lake Haven House cannot assume the legal liability of an infant on the premises. This woman violated company policy—”
“Who managed the inventory audit for the east wing last month?” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping an octave.
Celestine blinked, thrown off balance. “I... well, my administrative assistant—”
“Your administrative assistant made a forty-thousand-dollar reporting error that nearly halted our insurance renewal,” Dante said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. “And yet she was given a written warning.”
Celestine’s face flushed red. “That was a financial technicality!”
“And this is a mother trying to feed her son,” Dante replied quietly.
He turned back to me. His eyes swept over my magenta housekeeping uniform, taking in my disheveled hair, my flushed cheeks, and the heavy exhaustion etched around my eyes. He didn't look at my size with disgust or superiority. He looked at me as if he were assessing the structural integrity of a load-bearing wall.
“You’re Owen Fairchild’s widow,” Dante stated.
I stiffened. “You knew my husband?”
“Owen worked iron on Pier 14,” Dante said, his expression unreadable. “He was a good man. Honorable. Strong. When the steel beam snapped two years ago, the contractor’s insurance company dragged its feet on the settlement.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “We never got a dime. They claimed it was equipment failure.”
Dante’s jaw set into a hard line. “I bought that contracting company three months ago, Penelope. And I fired the insurance adjuster last week.”
He reached out and took Jamie’s small hand between two of his heavy fingers. Jamie didn't pull away. Instead, my nine-month-old son wrapped his tiny fingers around Dante’s thick thumb and giggled.
A faint, almost imperceptible softening appeared in Dante’s dark eyes before he looked up at Celestine.
“Pack your desk, Celestine,” Dante said plainly.
May you like
Celestine froze. “What?”
“You are terminated immediately,” Dante said, throwing her own words back at her with absolute, freezing precision. “Clear your office by twelve o'clock. You will receive your final check by mail.”
