Chapter 4 - The New Ledger
Vincent stood up from the poker table, buttoning his jacket with smooth, unhurried movements. He walked around the table until he stood directly in front of Amelia, looking down at her with a mixture of amusement and profound respect.
"Well," Vincent murmured, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "It appears I severely underestimated your disciplinary methods, Amelia."
"I'm done running, Mr. Rossy," Amelia said, her voice clear and unwavering. "I put the diner's money back in the box. But I am not going back to that apartment. And I am not letting him touch me ever again."
Vincent turned his attention back to the shivering mess on the floor. "Tommy. Do you know who owns the building where your apartment is located?"
Tommy shook his head frantically, whimpering against the concrete.
"A shell corporation registered under my niece's name," Vincent continued smoothly. "Which means, legally speaking, I am your landlord. And as your landlord, I am formally evicting you effective immediately. My men will pack your clothes into three garbage bags and leave them on the curb by 6:00 a.m."
Tommy scrambled backward. "Where am I supposed to go?"
"That is a statistical problem I have no interest in solving," Vincent replied coldly. He motioned to the two enforcers. "Take him out the back alley. Make sure he understands that if he is ever seen within ten blocks of 9th Avenue again, his next debt will be paid in bone fragments."
The enforcers hauled Tommy to his feet like a sack of laundry and dragged him screaming toward the rear service exit. The heavy metal door slammed shut, cutting off his cries and plunging the basement back into a heavy, quiet stillness.
Vincent turned back to Amelia. He picked up the gold-embossed business card from the poker table and held it out to her.
"My offer from the kitchen still stands," Vincent said softly. "The position is senior accounts manager for our legitimate import-export holdings in Manhattan. The salary is significantly better than diner tips, the hours are demanding, and my associates are required to maintain absolute discretion."
Amelia looked at the card. Embossed in elegant black lettering: Rossy Holdings LLC - Executive Offices, Madison Avenue.
"Why me?" she asked quietly. "You're a powerful man, Mr. Rossy. You could hire Harvard graduates for this."
"Harvard graduates come with too many opinions and far too much baggage," Vincent replied, walking over to pour himself a fresh glass of whiskey. "You possess three traits I value above all else in this city: resilience, resourcefulness, and the rare ability to recognize a disruption before it destroys you."
He raised his glass slightly toward her.
"Shall we consider this an interview?"
Amelia took a deep breath, feeling the cool basement air fill her lungs without the constriction of fear for the first time in years. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the heavy card stock, and took it from his hand.
"When do I start?" she asked.
"Tomorrow morning at 8:00 sharp," Vincent smiled. "Wear a suit. And Amelia?"
"Yes?"
May you like
"Try not to spill coffee on my desk."
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