Chapter 8 - The Wrong Kind of Protection
Salvatore drove to the Harbor Diner before sunrise. He told himself it was because Curtis Brandt needed to explain a forged register accusation. The truth was that his granddaughter had been threatened, and the old reflex in his muscles was to make someone afraid in return.
His driver, Gus, came inside with him. Gus had worked security for the family for thirty years and knew when Sal was walking toward a mistake.
“Let your attorney handle this,” Gus said quietly.
“Wait by the door.”
Curtis looked up from counting change. “I told you I can't talk here.”
“Then listen. The girl didn't steal from you. Your payroll service didn't invent those deductions. You're going to repair the damage.”
Curtis glanced toward the cameras above the grill. “I can't.”
“You can do anything you decide is worth doing.” Sal leaned forward. “But if another person approaches that family, you'll answer to me.”
The threat was low enough that only Curtis heard its exact words. It was also clear enough that Curtis went gray around the mouth.
Tasha was refilling sugar jars by the window. She froze when she recognized Sal from his photographs in the newspaper.
Later that morning, Curtis played a silent clip of Sal looming across the counter for the lawyer representing Pierpoint Holdings. By lunchtime, a cropped version was circulating in the neighborhood: reputed crime boss threatens diner owner after granddaughter accused of theft.
The comments treated Lila as either a fraud or a helpless pawn. Neither description belonged to her.
She found Sal in a quiet office above a fish market. Old family photographs lined the walls; the newest was already decades old.
“I told you not to interfere,” she said.
“I wanted Curtis to leave you alone.”
“He's telling everyone I sent a gangster to his workplace.”
“I'm your grandfather.”
“You met me two days ago.” Her voice shook. “You think your blood gives you the right to decide how I live?”
Sal opened his mouth, then stopped. Elena had once stood in this office and asked nearly the same question.
“You're right,” he said at last. “I made it worse.”
That afternoon Tasha called Lila from her car. She had been taken off the weekend schedule, and Curtis had warned that anyone involved in Lila's complaint might be named as a witness in a criminal case.
“I have two children,” Tasha whispered. “I can't afford to be brave just because you can.”
May you like
Lila apologized. But an apology wouldn't cover the groceries Tasha could no longer buy.
For the first time, Lila feared that knowing Salvatore Moretti might cost other people more than it cost her.
