Chapter 3 - A Reason Not to Be Afraid
The following afternoon, Lorenzo called the Obsidian’s general manager.
“Is Miss Hayes working tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she request medical attention?”
“No. She said her wrist was fine.”
“Has she been pressured by Frankie Lombardi before?”
The manager hesitated.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Answer me.”
“There were complaints.”
“From whom?”
“Two servers. One bartender.”
“And?”
“We warned him.”
“Did you document it?”
A pause.
“No, sir.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
For years, he’d treated the restaurant as one of the few businesses in his organization that remained separate from the criminal world.
Yet his employees were being threatened by the same people whose presence he allowed because they spent money.
He thought of Sofia.
Watch how a man treats waiters.
“Beginning tonight, complaints involving harassment will be documented and reviewed independently,” he said.
“Of course.”
“And employees must be able to report concerns without going through the person who supervises their shifts.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make the process clear to everyone.”
The manager agreed.
Lorenzo ended the call.
Then asked his attorney, Elena Russo, to examine the restaurant’s policies.
Elena was fifty-one, practical, and entirely uninterested in flattering him.
She had represented his legitimate companies for fifteen years.
When he explained what happened, she listened.
Then said, “You should have had these protections in place years ago.”
Lorenzo stared at her.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked toward his office window.
“I’m beginning to.”
That evening, he returned to the Obsidian.
Harper was serving a table near the stage.
She noticed him immediately.
For a moment, her expression changed.
Nervousness.
Then something like relief.
Lorenzo took his usual seat upstairs.
He did not summon her.
Did not ask anyone to send her to his office.
Instead, he watched the dining room while the quartet played.
Half an hour later, Harper approached his table carrying a small plate.
He looked up.
“Miss Hayes.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
She placed a slice of lemon cake beside his whiskey.
“I heard you like this.”
He studied it.
“Who told you?”
“Mrs. Russo in the kitchen.”
He smiled faintly.
“She’s been feeding me too much cake for fifteen years.”
Harper hesitated.
“It’s on me.”
Lorenzo looked up.
“Why?”
She gave a nervous smile.
“Because you helped me yesterday.”
He studied her.
“Then let me be clear about something.”
Her smile faded.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She looked down.
After a moment, she said, “I’m trying to.”
Lorenzo glanced toward the empty chair opposite him.
“Would you like to sit for a moment?”
Harper hesitated.
“I’m working.”
“Then perhaps after your shift.”
She looked surprised.
He continued.
“No obligation. And no offense if you’d rather go home.”
She studied his face.
For some reason, the fact that he offered her a way to refuse made the invitation feel safer.
“Maybe,” she said.
He nodded.
“Maybe is enough.”
She returned downstairs.
Lorenzo looked at the lemon cake.
Then smiled to himself.
A small smile.
Unfamiliar.
Almost embarrassing.
He hadn’t felt anticipation like that in years.
Harper finished her shift shortly after eleven.
She expected Lorenzo to have left.
Instead, she found him in the quiet restaurant near the front windows.
The staff were clearing tables.
The musicians had packed their instruments.
He stood when she approached.
“Miss Hayes.”
“Harper,” she said.
He paused.
“Harper.”
She smiled.
“You can call me Harper.”
“Then you may call me Lorenzo.”
The name felt strange in her mouth.
Everyone at the Obsidian called him Mr. Moretti or Don Lorenzo.
She had never heard anyone address him casually.
“Okay,” she said.
He gestured toward a small table.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be nice.”
They sat.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Lorenzo asked, “How’s your wrist?”
“Fine.”
She showed him.
The redness had faded.
“Good.”
Harper looked at him.
“I heard you changed the reporting policy.”
“I should have done it earlier.”
She seemed surprised by the admission.
“You’re not what people say.”
Lorenzo gave a humorless smile.
“That depends on which people.”
She looked down.
“I’ve heard stories.”
“Some are true.”
“Some?”
He studied her.
“Enough that you should be careful about trusting me simply because I behaved decently once.”
Harper looked up.
The honesty surprised her.
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
Lorenzo considered the question.
“Because I’d like to know whether you’re all right.”
She laughed softly.
“That’s a dangerous question.”
“Why?”
“Because the honest answer is no.”
He waited.
And something about the fact that he didn’t immediately offer advice made her continue.
She told him about nursing school.
About Leo.
About their mother.
About working double shifts.
About the debt.
She tried to explain it calmly.
But halfway through, her voice broke.
“I used to think if I worked hard enough, I could solve everything.”
Lorenzo listened.
“Now I can’t remember the last time I had a full day off.”
She looked away.
“I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for my entire life story.”
“No.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“But I’m glad you told me.”
Harper stared at him.
Then gave a small, exhausted laugh.
“You must think I’m a disaster.”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“I think you’re tired.”
Her eyes filled.
The distinction mattered more than he knew.
For months, she’d been told she was foolish for helping Leo, irresponsible for leaving school, and naive for believing she could manage the debt.
Nobody had simply noticed she was exhausted.
She wiped her eyes.
“I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.”
“I don’t usually cry in front of strangers.”
“Neither do I.”
She smiled faintly.
“You cry?”
“Occasionally.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He looked at the window.
“Neither would most people.”
They sat quietly.
Then Harper asked, “What about you?”
Lorenzo looked back.
“What about me?”
“Are you all right?”
The question surprised him.
It had been years since anyone asked without wanting something in return.
He considered giving the usual answer.
Fine.
Busy.
Tired.
Instead, he said, “Not particularly.”
Harper studied him.
“Why?”
He looked toward the dark restaurant.
“My wife died twelve years ago.”
Her expression softened immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Were you married long?”
“Twenty-four years.”
She nodded.
“That must have been hard.”
“It was.”
He looked down at his hands.
“It still is.”
Harper didn’t offer a comforting cliché.
She didn’t tell him everything happened for a reason.
She simply sat with him.
And somehow, the silence felt less lonely than any conversation he’d had in years.
They left the restaurant shortly before midnight.
Lorenzo offered to arrange a car.
Harper declined.
“I can take the subway.”
“Of course.”
He walked with her to the entrance.
Outside, the streets glistened from rain.
A taxi passed slowly.
Harper turned toward him.
“Thank you for listening.”
He nodded.
“Thank you for talking.”
She smiled.
Then hesitated.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you ever get tired of people being afraid of you?”
Lorenzo went still.
The question was more direct than he expected.
He considered lying.
Then said, “Every day.”
Harper looked at him for a long moment.
“Then maybe you should give them reasons not to be.”
He almost laughed.
“You make that sound simple.”
“It probably isn’t.”
“No.”
She stepped back.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”
She smiled.
“Good night, Lorenzo.”
“Good night, Harper.”
He watched her walk toward the subway entrance.
Not because he wanted to follow her.
Because he wanted to remember the way she had looked at him.
Not as a boss.
Not as a criminal.
Not as a man whose money made him important.
Simply as someone who might still be capable of changing.
May you like
He stood beneath the awning for several minutes after she disappeared.
Then went home.
