Chapter 5 - The Stolen Tip
Ten minutes later, Nia was riding in the plush leather interior of a bespoke Maybach, gliding silently down Fifth Avenue toward the luxury tower overlooking Central Park where the Rahal family maintained their private penthouse residence.
Her fingers were still numb from the cold, but the heated seats and the hum of the climate control quickly thawed the chill from her bones. Tariq sat in the front passenger seat, speaking rapidly in low, urgent Arabic into a secure satellite phone. He didn't tell Nia what he was arranging, but from the names of high-powered legal firms and financial regulators being tossed around, Nia knew a storm was gathering.
When the elevator opened directly into the 64th-floor penthouse, Kareem Rahal was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering skyline of New York. He had taken off his suit jacket and was wearing a fine cashmere sweater, holding a steaming glass of tea.
His wife Layla was sitting on a cream-colored sofa. When she saw Nia walk in, she immediately stood up and walked over, taking Nia’s cold hands into her own warm ones.
“Come, sit down, my dear,” Layla said gently, leading her to the sofa. “Tariq told us what happened.”
Kareem turned around, his face a mask of absolute, aristocratic fury. It wasn’t the loud, petty rage that Trent Mallory displayed; it was the quiet, terrifying wrath of a man who commanded fleets of cargo ships and real estate conglomerates.
“He took the receipt?” Kareem asked.
“He put it in his inside coat pocket,” Nia explained, sitting upright on the sofa. “He told me that house policy pools all tips over twenty percent, and that because I altered the menu and spoke to you directly, I committed gross insubordination. He terminated me on the spot.”
Kareem smiled, but there was no humor in it. “House policy? Does that little creature think I do not know how merchant services and labor laws operate in New York State?”
He walked over to a marble coffee table and picked up a tablet.
“Tariq,” Kareem said without looking up. “Who owns the building that houses the Bellweather Room?”
Tariq checked his phone instantly. “The building is owned by the Vanderlyn Commercial Trust, sir. They hold a forty-year master lease on the property.”
“And who holds the majority bond note on the Vanderlyn Trust?”
Tariq smiled slightly. “Rahal Global Capital acquired eighty-two percent of their convertible debt last November, sir.”
Kareem nodded slowly. “And who is the primary patron of Mr. Arthur Henderson’s restaurant group?”
“The sovereign fund we advise, sir. Henderson has been seeking a twelve-million-dollar investment from us to expand the Bellweather brand into Dubai and Doha.”
Layla let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “The foolish manager did not just steal from our server. He stole from the guest who owns the ground beneath his feet.”
Kareem looked at Nia. “Nia, twenty-five thousand dollars is a fair gift for an exceptional evening. But what that man did to you is a crime of dignity. He believes people who work with their hands have no voice, no rights, and no protectors. He thinks poverty makes you invisible.”
Kareem set down the tablet and looked at his watch. It was 11:15 PM.
“The Bellweather Room closes at midnight, does it not?” Kareem asked.
May you like
“The kitchen closes at eleven, but the floor and bar remain open until one,” Nia answered.
“Splendid,” Kareem said, adjusting his cuffs. “Tariq, call Arthur Henderson. Tell him to get off his private jet in Miami, turn around, or wake up his managing partners immediately. We are going back to the Bellweather Room. And this time, we will not be dining.”
