Chapter 9
Autumn arrived.
Then winter.
The story faded from the newspapers.
Gerard’s case moved through court quietly.
Meridian Holdings underwent a full audit.
Several of Dante’s companies were restructured.
One of them—the legitimate property-development firm that had always been the most public-facing part of the Moretti world—began funding the Marco Moran Scholarship for students pursuing history, education, architecture, and public service.
Dante insisted my name not be attached.
That was my choice.
I didn’t want a scholarship named after the waitress who saved a mafia boss.
I wanted Marco’s choice to have room of its own.
Jamie disagreed.
“You should at least demand free cake.”
“I get employee discount.”
“Heroism has become cheap.”
My own life changed more quietly.
One night Mr. Serrano called me into his office.
I assumed I had forgotten to enter a tip.
Instead he placed a folder in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“Assistant manager opening.”
I stared.
“You want me to apply?”
“I want you to stop acting like you wandered accidentally into being good at this.”
“I’m a waitress.”
He leaned back.
“And I was a dishwasher.”
That silenced me.
“You know the staff,” he continued. “You know the customers. You notice everything.”
That phrase again.
You notice everything.
Luca had said something similar.
People see a surprising amount when everyone assumes they are invisible.
For years I had believed being overlooked meant I had failed to become important.
Maybe noticing was its own kind of importance.
I applied.
I got the job.
My first decision was to change the staff meal policy.
My second was to make Mr. Serrano repair the employee-room heater before winter.
My third was to stop accepting every extra shift simply because somebody asked.
That one was hardest.
Jamie helped.
Whenever I agreed to something unnecessary, he texted one word.
BOUNDARIES.
May you like
I hated him.
Lovingly.
