Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN WHO WAS NO LONGER HIS EMPLOYEE
Charlotte's first week unemployed was terrible.
Freedom, she discovered, contained paperwork.
Aisha helped establish temporary disability benefits.
The independent trustee froze Higgins trust distributions pending tainted-funds review.
Which Charlotte supported.
Intellectually.
Her landlord did not accept intellectual integrity.
Fortunately, the medical-leave policy Vincent had formally adopted applied retroactively to her injury before resignation.
Independent payroll counsel confirmed six weeks' wage continuation as earned employment benefit.
Charlotte accepted.
Not gift.
Important.
She returned to her Queens apartment only with police clearance.
The lock replaced.
Door reinforced through victim-services grant.
Not Vincent.
Important again.
Her arm remained in cast.
Orthopedist said alignment good.
Four more weeks.
She learned how difficult one-handed life was.
Bras.
Jars.
Hair.
Laundry.
Her body became subject of negotiation with furniture.
She swore often.
Rosa visited once carrying soup.
"You put too much salt."
"Then starve."
Charlotte laughed.
Rosa sat.
Estate gossip?
Apparently Vincent had revised employment policies.
Paid medical leave.
Incident reporting.
Independent HR service for household staff.
Rosa hated forms.
"Good."
Charlotte smiled.
"Did he fire anyone?"
"Carlo."
"Arrested."
"Technically suspended first."
They laughed.
Then Rosa became serious.
"He asks about you."
Charlotte looked down.
"What does he ask?"
"Whether doctor says you heal."
"Not where I go?"
"No."
"Who I see?"
"No."
"Good."
Rosa narrowed eyes.
"You like him."
Charlotte sighed.
"I liked him before."
"What?"
"Not romantically."
Rosa waited.
"Maybe."
Charlotte hated herself.
Vincent had been employer.
Dangerous man.
Mafia boss.
Yet he had listened.
Not perfectly.
He still moved through life assuming problems could be removed.
But when she said no bodies, there were no bodies.
When she demanded police, he used police.
When she quit, he let her.
That should be minimum.
Maybe her standards were damaged.
Aisha said exactly that.
"You are allowed to appreciate decent behavior without turning minimum into destiny."
Charlotte glared.
"Do lawyers charge for insults?"
"Sliding scale."
Good.
The Higgins trust review produced first report.
Of $3.8 million, approximately $1.9 million came from legitimate warehouse sale and Thomas wages/profit share.
$1.2 million derived from illicit proceeds Antonio had routed.
$700,000 growth and interest mixed.
Court-appointed trustee recommended segregating uncontested amount while victim claims reviewed.
Charlotte could receive part.
She did not immediately.
Why?
Fear.
Money changed story too fast.
Aisha asked:
"What do you want?"
Everyone.
That question.
Charlotte thought.
"Pay off my actual debts."
Credit cards.
Medical? Covered.
Back rent? None.
Student loan? She had community college debt.
About $18,000.
"Good."
"Emergency fund."
"Good."
"New apartment eventually."
"Good."
"And school."
Aisha looked up.
"What school?"
Charlotte had once studied bookkeeping.
Dropped after mother's illness? We haven't established. Could introduce.
"I started an accounting certificate at LaGuardia years ago."
"What happened?"
"Dad got sick."
Pattern caregiving.
"Do you want to finish?"
Maybe.
"Yes."
Why accounting?
Because numbers had ruined family?
Because she liked making them tell truth.
Her father kept books.
Mara weaponized books.
Charlotte could learn legitimate accounting, forensic maybe.
"I want forensic accounting."
Aisha smiled.
"That tracks."
No Vincent.
Her plan.
She enrolled in evening prerequisite course.
One hand.
Typing slow.
Still.
Three weeks after quitting, Vincent texted.
First personal message.
He had number as employer.
That boundary questionable.
Message:
I would like to ask you to dinner after you are no longer receiving DeAgostino payroll and after your employment separation paperwork is final. No answer required tonight.
Charlotte stared.
Specific.
Annoying.
Good.
She waited two days.
Then replied:
Ask again when cast comes off.
He answered:
Understood.
No heart.
No persuasion.
Charlotte smiled for embarrassing length.
Meanwhile, criminal case grew.
Mickey cooperated.
Mara charged with conspiracy to commit extortion, fraudulent instruments, theft-related offenses, and witness tampering.
Carlo charged with burglary conspiracy, evidence theft, unlawful surveillance, obstruction.
Frankie faced assault.
Other collectors charges varied.
The ten men were not dead.
They had been "erased" from Mickey's crew and then processed individually.
Some criminally.
Some not.
That mattered to Charlotte.
No collective punishment.
Facts per person.
She testified before grand jury with cast.
A prosecutor asked why she went to work after fracture.
Charlotte answered truthfully.
"Because I thought missing a shift was more dangerous to my life than working injured."
The room went quiet.
Not because dramatic.
Because wage insecurity sounded mundane next to mafia violence.
She continued.
"I was wrong about my employer firing me."
Pause.
"I wasn't wrong that workers make decisions like that."
She had learned not to make personal exception erase structural reality.
Vincent did not attend.
Her request.
He respected.
After, outside courthouse, reporters waited.
One shouted:
"Ms. Higgins, is it true Vincent DeAgostino killed ten men for you?"
Charlotte stopped.
There it was.
Story mutated.
She turned.
"No."
Cameras moved.
"He did not kill ten men."
"Then what happened?"
"He interfered with their access to Mickey Sullivan's collection network before sunrise."
"Why?"
"Because they assaulted me."
"Are they alive?"
"Yes."
"All?"
"To my knowledge."
Reporter:
"Are you romantically involved with DeAgostino?"
Charlotte laughed.
"That's none of your business."
Then another:
"How do you respond to people calling you the maid who tamed a mafia boss?"
Her face hardened.
"I didn't tame anyone."
Vincent would like that.
"He made choices."
"And you?"
"I made mine."
She left.
Headline anyway:
PLUS-SIZE MAID DENIES ROMANCE WITH MOB BOSS.
Of course.
Her body in title.
Always.
Charlotte posted one statement through Aisha:
My size is not evidence, motive, or plot twist.
It went viral more than she wanted.
Women wrote.
Service workers.
Plus-size women.
People who hid injuries at work.
Charlotte turned off comments.
She did not want to become symbol.
Four weeks after injury, cast replaced with removable brace.
Physical therapy.
Pain.
Stiffness.
Doctor said no heavy work yet.
Fine.
She was not returning to maid job.
She attended accounting class.
First night, professor asked why forensic accounting.
Charlotte answered:
"Because people lie in stories and numbers."
Professor smiled.
"Numbers also lie."
"Then I want to learn how."
Good.
After class, Vincent waited outside.
Not in black convoy.
One car.
No bodyguard visible.
Charlotte stopped.
"Did you follow me?"
"No."
"How know class?"
"You told Rosa."
She glared.
"I'll kill her."
Vincent's eyebrows rose.
"Metaphorically."
"Good."
He held up phone.
"I was nearby. I asked Rosa whether you were free."
"Boundary issue."
"Yes."
He winced.
"I see that now."
Good.
"What do you want?"
"Ask again."
Her heart moved.
"Dinner?"
"Yes."
He looked less certain than man who could silence rooms.
Interesting.
"I am no longer your employer."
"No."
"Payroll ended?"
"Yesterday."
She had received final statement.
"Employment paperwork final?"
"Yes."
"Then ask."
Vincent breathed.
"Charlotte Higgins, would you have dinner with me?"
She enjoyed power too much.
"Why?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Because I like you."
"Specific."
"You argue."
"Bad."
"Useful."
"Continue."
"You don't flatter me."
"Obviously."
"You make me explain power I usually don't notice."
That was better.
"And?"
Vincent looked at her.
"I think about you when there is no crisis."
There.
The right line.
Not broken arm.
Not rescue.
Ordinary.
Charlotte's chest tightened.
"Saturday."
His face changed.
"Yes?"
"Saturday."
"Where?"
"Not somewhere you own."
He sighed.
"That reduces Manhattan."
"Queens."
He looked mildly alarmed.
Charlotte laughed.
"Seven."
"Can I send car?"
"No."
"Can I pick you up?"
She thought.
"Yes."
He smiled.
Then:
"May I carry your books?"
Charlotte looked at brace.
Old urge to prove she could.
She could carry with right hand.
But asking mattered.
"Yes."
He took bag.
Not her arm.
They walked.
At curb, he gave books back.
No kiss.
Good.
Charlotte went home smiling.
Then found an envelope under her door.
No stamp.
Inside:
Photograph of Thomas Higgins with Antonio DeAgostino.
Back:
ASK VINCENT WHO ORDERED YOUR FATHER'S LAST JOB.
Charlotte's smile disappeared.
One more secret.
Of course.
She called Vincent immediately.
He answered.
"Home?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
She read line.
Silence.
Too long.
"Vincent."
"I know about his last job."
Her blood went cold.
"You said you didn't."
"I learned three days ago."
"And didn't tell me."
There.
Trust cracked exactly where it was forming.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted verification."
"No."
Charlotte's voice shook.
"That is what everyone says before deciding truth for me."
He went silent.
She continued.
"What was the job?"
Vincent answered:
"My father asked Thomas to identify a federal informant inside DeAgostino operations."
Charlotte stopped.
"An informant besides him?"
"Yes."
"Did he?"
"He named someone."
"Who?"
Vincent's voice lowered.
"Dominic."
Charlotte sat down.
"Your uncle."
"Yes."
"Was Dominic an informant?"
"I don't know."
"Then what happened?"
"My father ordered Dominic punished."
Her stomach dropped.
"How?"
"Beating."
Again.
"Did Thomas know?"
"Yes."
"Did he regret?"
"According to notes, immediately."
"Then?"
"He tried to recant."
Too late.
"What does this have to do with his death?"
Vincent breathed.
"Three days later, Thomas died."
Charlotte froze.
Her father had supposedly died of a heart attack at work.
"What are you saying?"
"His death may not have been natural."
Everything went silent.
And the man she had agreed to date on Saturday had known for three days.
May you like
Not enough to make him guilty of murder.
Enough to make trust newly expensive.
