Chapter 7 - The Shore Road Meeting
By Thursday afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Moretti estate had shifted dramatically.
The dark wool drapes in Rafe’s bedroom were gone, replaced by light white cotton curtains that drifted gently in the cool salt breeze blowing off the bay. The suffocating heat in the room was gone; the hearth sat cold and swept clean.
For the first time in seven months, Raphael Moretti sat up in a wheelchair, wearing a clean black shirt and trousers, his hair trimmed, his face shaved clean.
He was sitting near the open window, a cup of black coffee resting on his tray table, reading through a stack of shipping manifests that Daniel had brought up from the docks.
Sloan stood near the doorway, holding a bucket of clean water and a mop.
"The union reps in New Bedford are pushing for a six-percent wage increase on the cold-storage docks," Rafe said, without looking up from his papers. His voice was strong, sharp, and steady—the voice of a commander returning to his post.
"Give them four percent," Sloan said casually as she wrung out her mop. "And cover their medical dental copays. It costs less than a strike, and it keeps the crane operators loyal."
Rafe stopped reading. He looked up over his papers, a dark eyebrow raised.
"Since when does a trauma nurse understand labor logistics?" he asked.
"My father was a crane operator at the Providence port for twenty-two years," Sloan said, mopping the mahogany floorboards near the door. "You learn how union bosses think when you grow up at their Sunday cookouts."
Rafe looked at her for several quiet seconds. The dark, hollow look in his face was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating intelligence that made it obvious why he had ruled the waterfront at thirty years old.
"Daniel paid your sister's hospital bill this morning," Rafe said softly.
Sloan stopped mopping. She turned her head to look at him.
"The full four thousand two hundred dollars," Rafe continued, pulling a heavy white envelope from his desk drawer and setting it on the table. "And there's another five thousand in this envelope. Cash. Consider it a bonus for... the mirror."
Sloan looked at the envelope. Her heart gave a sudden, powerful thud against her ribs—a mixture of overwhelming relief for Junie and a strange, heavy ache she didn't quite understand.
Her job was done.
She had earned the money. Junie’s therapy was secured for the next six weeks.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," Sloan said quietly. She walked over, picked up the envelope, and tucked it into her shoulder bag.
"You don't have to leave, Merrick," Rafe said, his voice dropping into a lower tone.
Sloan looked at him. "My contract was for a week."
"I'm offering you a permanent position," Rafe said, leaning forward in his wheelchair. "Personal health consultant. Ten thousand dollars a month. Cash. You live in the east wing cottage. Your sister can be transferred to a private rehabilitation center in Boston—one paid for by my family."
Sloan stared at him. It was an astonishing offer—a complete solution to every financial problem she and Junie would ever face for the rest of their lives.
Before she could answer, the double doors of the bedroom were pushed open violently.
Augustus Moretti stepped into the room, his white hair windblown, his old face pale as paper. Behind him stood Daniel Bishop, holding a heavy black submachine gun in his hands.
"Rafe," Gus said, his voice shaking with a dangerous, dark rage. "We have a problem at the front gate."
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Rafe’s expression instantly turned to stone. "Who is it?"
"It's Matteo Rossi," Gus said. "He brought four cars. He says he heard you were dying in a dark room. He says he's taking control of the New Bedford docks by sunset."
