Chapter 2
Arthur Carter arrived twenty minutes later.
He still had flour on his sleeves.
The moment he saw Maeve beside me, fear crossed his face.
Not relief.
Fear.
That bothered me.
He hurried forward.
“Maeve.”
She ran to him.
He held her tightly, then looked at me.
“Mr. Castellano.”
Not Rocco.
Not Boss.
Formal distance from a man who had attended my mother’s funeral.
“What happened?”
I asked.
Arthur looked at Dominic.
There.
Again.
I moved between their lines of sight.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“When did you last receive the staff-family food allotment?”
His throat worked.
“Four months ago.”
Four.
“Why?”
“Program ended.”
“According to whom?”
Silence.
I nodded toward Dominic.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Of course.
“What replaced it?”
He hesitated.
“A contribution system.”
I almost smiled.
“What does that mean?”
Every vendor and junior employee had been told the club was undergoing restructuring.
To keep preferred access, they had to buy monthly “club contribution certificates.”
Not actual club memberships.
Not shares.
Nothing official.
Just payments.
Who collected?
Dominic.
And the other so-called Executive Stewards.
Those who paid received food allotments, preferred delivery slots, extra hours, and access to private events.
Those who didn’t?
Their contracts shrank.
Staff meals disappeared.
Children like Maeve went hungry while expensive platters crossed the same hallway.
“How much were you paying?”
Arthur looked ashamed.
“I stopped.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t afford both flour and the contribution.”
That explained hunger.
Not poverty exactly.
Extraction.
Dominic had converted benefits I paid for into leverage he sold back to the people already entitled to them.
I looked at my nephew.
“You charged my baker to receive food I purchased for his family.”
Dominic snapped:
“It was to maintain standards.”
Of course.
Cruelty always sounds respectable once accountants get involved.
Then Arthur said something I did not expect.
“It wasn’t Dominic’s idea.”
The lobby went silent.
I turned.
“Whose?”
Arthur looked at the brass badges scattered near my feet.
Then whispered:
“The Founders’ Circle.”
May you like
I had owned Castellano Club for thirty-one years.
There had never been a Founders’ Circle.
