Chapter 4: The Accounting
Mrs.
Gable had managed the Moretti estate for eleven years.
She had outlasted three housekeepers before her, two estate managers, and one full rotation of domestic staff.
She had done this by being indispensable, by knowing where everything was, by making herself the person Lorenzo Moretti called when something needed to be handled quietly.
She had never once imagined she might be the thing that needed handling.
"Sit down," Lorenzo said.
He was already behind her desk when she entered her own office.
He had not asked permission.
The chair she normally occupied was pushed to the side.
He had taken the one facing the door — the one guests sat in, the one that faced away from the window and offered no advantage.
Mrs.
Gable sat.
"Mr.
Moretti, whatever you may have heard from the girl—"
"I haven't heard anything yet," Lorenzo said.
"I'm looking at records."
He had her household ledger open on the desk.
He had also opened her scheduling log — the one she kept on her personal tablet, which one of his bodyguards had collected from the side table in the foyer while she was still directing the other staff.
"The east wing care budget," he said.
"Twelve hundred dollars per month allocated for my father's meals, medical supplies, and personal care.
Where did it go?"
"Running a household of this size requires—"
"I'm not asking about the household.
I'm asking about my father's budget.
Specifically." He turned the ledger toward her and set his finger on a line.
"This entry.
Four hundred dollars, monthly, listed as medical sundries.
What was purchased?"
Mrs.
Gable's chin lifted.
"Supplies for the east wing.
Medications, comfort items—"
"His physician visits the estate quarterly.
His prescriptions are filled through the family account directly.
They don't pass through your ledger." Lorenzo closed the book.
"So what was the four hundred dollars for?"
The room was very quiet.
"I will need to review the receipts," Mrs.
Gable said.
"I'm sure you will." Lorenzo leaned back.
"The maid who has been caring for my father — Nora — purchased a heated blanket for him with her own wages.
She has been bringing him food from the kitchen because what he was being served was cold and inadequate.
She has been bathing him, sitting with him, and talking to him every evening for three months." He paused.
"On her salary, Mrs.
Gable.
Not on the twelve hundred dollars a month allocated for his care."
Mrs.
Gable's composure cracked — just at the edges, just enough.
"The girl overstepped.
She had no authority to—"
"She had no authority," Lorenzo said, "and she did it anyway.
You had every authority, and you did nothing." He stood.
"The bruises on her wrists.
Explain those."
"She is clumsy.
In her condition—"
"I saw the marks.
They are grip marks.
Four fingers and a thumb, on both wrists." His voice did not rise.
It never rose.
"You grabbed a six-months-pregnant woman on a staircase and ordered her to carry fifty-pound drapes."
Mrs.
Gable stood as well.
Something shifted in her posture — the calculation of a woman deciding whether to fight or retreat.
She chose, unwisely, to fight.
"Mr.
Moretti, I have run this estate without incident for eleven years.
Whatever that girl has told you, she is a desperate young woman looking for sympathy and a way to keep her position.
She has been stealing from your kitchen.
She has been entering your father's room without authorization.
If you check the staff records, you will find she was hired under false pretenses — she concealed her pregnancy during the interview."
Lorenzo looked at her.
"She concealed her pregnancy," he said, "because she needed the work.
And then she used that work to take care of my father when the person I was paying to do it did not." He picked up his phone.
"You're dismissed.
Effective immediately.
Security will escort you to collect your personal items.
You will be gone within the hour."
Mrs.
Gable's face went white.
"You cannot simply — I have a contract.
I have rights.
I will contact my solicitor—"
"You're welcome to." Lorenzo moved toward the door.
"My legal team will be very interested to discuss the missing care budget.
Eleven years of it."
Mrs.
Gable's mouth opened.
Then closed.
"One more thing," Lorenzo said, turning back.
"If you speak to Nora — if you approach her, contact her, or involve any member of this staff in any communication with her — the conversation about the budget becomes a formal inquiry.
Do you understand me?"
She understood him.
Her hands, Nora would later learn from one of the other maids, were shaking when security walked her to her room.
But as Lorenzo returned to the east wing corridor, his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
Stopped walking.
The message was from his head of security in Manhattan.
Four words and a name.
May you like
*Brody Callahan.
He's back.*
