Chapter 6 - The Weight of an Eleven-Dollar Life
Claire didn't move. She didn't drop the keys. Her eyes went from the black barrel of the gun straight up to Dominic’s face, which was frozen in a mask of total, lethal calculation.
“You have five seconds to tell me why you’re standing outside my door at midnight, Miss Bennett,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made her spine turn to ice.
“I was bringing back the library keys,” Claire said, her voice steady despite the fact that her heart was hammering against her ribs like a bird in a cage. “And if you’re going to shoot me, Mr. Marchetti, I’d appreciate it if you didn't do it on the rug. I spent three hours cleaning the macaroni out of the pile today, and I’m not doing it again for blood.”
Marchetti stared at her. For three long seconds, the silence between them was an ocean of potential violence.
Then, slowly, his thumb clicked the safety back onto the weapon, and he lowered his arm, sliding the pistol into a hidden holster beneath his waistband with a practiced, fluid motion.
“You’re either exceptionally brave, Miss Bennett,” he muttered, turning back into the study and leaving the door open behind him, “or you’re too stupid to understand what lives in this house.”
“I’m broke, Mr. Marchetti,” Claire said, walking into the room and dropping the brass key ring onto his desk with a heavy clink. “When you have eleven dollars to your name and a child who needs shoes for the winter, the difference between a mafia boss and a rude customer at a diner becomes very small. They’re both just things you have to handle so you can buy milk on Monday.”
Marchetti sat down behind his massive mahogany desk, his dark eyes watching her as she stood before him. The room smelled of old paper, premium tobacco, and the distinct, metallic scent of gun oil.
“Brandt tells me you locked my sons in the library with raw pancake batter,” he said, a faint, dark glimmer of amusement returning to his eyes.
“It was flour paste,” Claire corrected, crossing her arms. “And it worked. They cleaned the glass, they ate their dinner, and Nico actually told me that my bun was crooked before he went to bed. Which I’m taking as a compliment.”
Marchetti leaned back, his fingers interlacing over his chest. “Nico hasn't spoken to a caregiver since his mother died, Miss Bennett. He usually communicates via property damage.”
“He’s seven,” Claire said, her tone softening just enough to let the mother through. “He doesn't want to destroy your house, Mr. Marchetti. He wants to see if you’re paying attention when he does. If you keep ignoring them because you think it keeps them safe, the only thing you’re going to achieve is making sure they’re ready for a prison cell by the time they’re eighteen.”
Marchetti’s face went dark, the skin around his jaw tightening until the old scar on his cheek turned white. “You’re overstepping your position.”
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“My position is six thousand dollars a month plus room and board,” Claire said, turning toward the door. “And for that price, you get my honesty along with my cleaning skills. Goodnight, Mr. Marchetti. Don't forget to lock your door. Apparently, there are people from Boston who don't appreciate your manifests.”
As her cheap shoes clicked down the hallway, Dominic Marchetti remained at his desk, his dark eyes fixed on the empty doorway, the silver fountain pen untouched between his fingers for the first time in months.
