Chapter 6 - The Library Archives
Monday morning arrived with a crisp, frost-bitten breeze sweeping off Boston Harbor, dusting the iron gates of the Moretti estate with a fine layer of white.
Inside the grand estate library, the sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting amber and sapphire reflections across endless rows of mahogany bookshelves.
Elena Brooks sat at a large oak study desk in the center of the room, wearing a neat, professional navy cardigan and black slacks. Her left forearm was wrapped in a light, comfortable elastic sleeve, completely free of the bulky bandages.
Spread out before her were thick, leather-bound financial ledgers dating back to the 1980s—records of the estate’s historical payroll and property acquisitions.
She turned a page carefully, using her right hand, checking the columns of numbers against a digital spreadsheet on the sleek laptop Gabriel had provided.
The heavy oak doors of the library creaked open.
Elena looked up, expecting to see Walter the majordomo or Clara bringing her mid-morning tea.
Instead, it was Gabriel.
He had removed his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. He looked tired, the faint shadows beneath his dark eyes hinting at a sleepless weekend dealing with corporate restructuring and political fallout, but his expression softened the moment he saw her.
“Good morning, Elena,” Gabriel said, walking slowly across the Persian rug toward the desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Moretti,” Elena replied respectfully, starting to stand up.
“Please, sit,” Gabriel insisted, waving a hand to keep her seated. He stopped beside the desk, glancing down at the open ledger. “How is your arm holding up? Are the ledgers too heavy?”
“My arm feels almost normal, sir,” Elena smiled softly. “And these books are fascinating. I had no idea the estate used to operate half its own import logistics back in the nineties.”
“My grandfather believed in keeping everything in-house,” Gabriel said, resting his hand casually on the back of a nearby leather chair. “Control was survival back then. But things change. We evolve—or we get left behind.”
He looked closely at Elena, noticing the neat, organized way she had color-coded the audit flags on the margins of the ledger pages.
“You have an eye for detail,” Gabriel observed. “Accounting?”
“Finance and business administration,” Elena admitted with a slight flush of embarrassment, looking down at her notes. “I finished my degree at Boston University two years ago. But... my mother fell ill with chronic kidney failure, hospital bills piled up, and I had to take whatever domestic work was available through the agency just to keep the insurance active.”
Gabriel went completely still. The casual, relaxed posture vanished, replaced by an intense, analytical stillness.
“You have a degree in finance from BU, and you were scrubbing floors and serving tea in my dining room?” Gabriel asked, his voice dropping into a register of disbelief.
“It pays double what entry-level corporate accounting firms offer for administrative temps,” Elena answered honestly, meeting his gaze without shame. “When your family’s survival is on the line, pride is a luxury you learn to live without.”
Gabriel stared at her for a long, silent moment. The memory of Camille throwing boiling water at this young woman because of a spilled cup of tea flashed through his mind, filling him with a sudden, cold wave of disgust for his past blindness.
“You won't be scrubbing floors or serving tea in this house ever again, Elena,” Gabriel said firmly.
Elena blinked, surprised. “Sir?”
“My chief financial officer, Marcus Sterling, is retiring at the end of the month,” Gabriel stated, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man making an executive decree. “My corporate holdings need someone sharp, honest, and immune to intimidation to audit our secondary logistics accounts. Starting next week, you’re moving out of the domestic staff quarters and into the executive financial suite downtown.”
Elena’s jaw dropped. She stared at the most feared mafia boss in New York and Boston as if he had just offered her a ticket to Mars.
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“Mr. Moretti... I... I don't know what to say. I’m just a maid—”
“You were never just a maid, Elena,” Gabriel interrupted quietly, a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth. “You were simply in the wrong room. Let’s see what you can do when you’re given the right desk.”
