Chapter 23 - The Summons to the Headmaster’s Office
Three weeks into the academic term, I was sitting in the corner boardroom of Moretti Maritime Logistics at the South Boston waterfront, reviewing our newly integrated commercial shipping lanes, when my personal red-line phone lit up on the glass desk.
I picked up immediately. "Dominic."
"Dominic, we have a situation," Elena’s voice came through the receiver, sounding exasperated, amused, and dangerously defensive all at once. "You need to come to St. Sebastian’s right now. The headmaster has called an emergency disciplinary hearing."
My hand instinctively tightened around the receiver, the dark instincts of my syndicate blood surging to the surface. "Did someone lay a hand on them?"
"No," Elena sighed, and I could hear the faint rustle of leather seats as she spoke from the back of her escort vehicle. "It’s the opposite. The boys conducted what Headmaster Vance is calling an 'unauthorized corporate takeover' of the first-grade recess yard. Just get here before I strangle Gregory Barrett."
Twenty minutes later, my black sedan screeched up the circular driveway of St. Sebastian’s. I took the grand stone staircase two steps at a time, shedding my dark wool overcoat and striding down the oak-paneled administrative corridor with an armed Christian trailing three paces behind.
When I pushed open the double doors to the headmaster’s private office, the scene was worthy of a high-stakes mob summit.
On one side of the vast Persian rug sat Gregory Barrett, looking red-faced and apoplectic, alongside his sniffling blonde son, Thomas. Across from them sat Elena, wearing a sharp ivory pantsuit, her legs crossed, radiating a serene, terrifying elegance. And sitting in four miniature leather armchairs along the bay window were Leo, Dante, Marco, and Mateo. They sat perfectly straight, blazers buttoned, hands clasped over their knees, looking like an elite defense counsel awaiting the prosecutor’s opening statement.
"Ah, Mr. Moretti," Headmaster Vance squeaked, rising from behind his antique mahogany desk and wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We have... an unprecedented disciplinary dilemma."
"Explain," I commanded, pulling up an armchair beside Elena, resting my hand casually over hers on the armrest.
Gregory Barrett slammed his fist onto the side table. "Your feral bastards ran an extortion racket on the playground, Dominic! They shook down my son and six other boys for their imported Swiss trading cards and half their cafeteria snack vouchers!"
I turned slowly to face the four armchairs. "Leo. Is this true?"
Leo didn't flinch. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, his small voice measured and calm. "Extortion implies coercion under threat of physical violence, Dad. That is a flagrant misrepresentation of commercial fact. It was a voluntary liquidity swap."
Dante nodded in solemn agreement. "Thomas Barrett brought twenty rare collector cards to school to flaunt them in the sandbox. He lacked the market intelligence to realize that the cards hold no intrinsic utility during freezing weather. Marco had four thermos cups of hot artisanal cocoa with marshmallows, prepared by the brownstone staff."
"Marco established a futures exchange," Mateo chimed in, pointing a small finger toward the whiteboard where Headmaster Vance had written down the 'charges'. "One cup of hot cocoa was priced at three rare cards, with a cafeteria voucher surcharge for immediate delivery. Thomas signed the transaction agreement in crayon on a St. Sebastian’s napkin. It was a bilateral, mutually beneficial commodity contract."
Marco shrugged innocence personified. "The cocoa was delicious. Thomas drank every drop. A deal is a deal."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper to keep from laughing out loud. Beside me, Elena was looking at the ceiling, taking deep, steadying breaths to maintain her dignified composure.
"They traded cheap hot chocolate for five-hundred-dollar vintage cards!" Gregory roared, veins bulging in his temple. "They robbed my boy!"
"Your boy signed a contract for an asset he desperately wanted in sub-zero temperatures, Gregory," I said, leaning back and resting my elbows on the mahogany arms of the chair, letting the lethal authority of the Moretti patriarch settle over the room. "In my line of work, we call that supply and demand. If your son doesn't understand the fundamentals of a volatile market, perhaps you should be hiring him a financial tutor instead of crying to the headmaster."
"Mr. Moretti, please!" Vance pleaded, holding his hands up in terror. "Trading cards are strictly prohibited under Academy Rule 14-B! The contracts must be voided and the goods returned!"
Elena stood up smoothly, smoothing the fabric of her ivory trousers. Her hazel eyes locked onto Headmaster Vance with the predatory focus of a hawk.
"The boys will return the cards, Headmaster," she said, her voice dropping into a soft, melodic purr that silenced the entire room. "Because Morettis do not hoard plastic trinkets that belong to children. But let me be entirely clear: if Mr. Barrett ever uses the word 'feral' or 'bastards' in reference to my sons on these grounds again, my husband won't need to purchase the new science wing. We will buy the academy’s outstanding mortgage from Santander Bank and convert this entire administrative wing into a private gymnasium for our quadruplets. Do we understand each other?"
Vance turned as white as a fresh sheet of paper. He nodded rapidly, three times, completely incapable of speech.
"Good," Elena said, turning toward the window. "Boys. Relinquish the cardboard. We're going out for pizza."
May you like
The four boys stood up in perfect synchronization, reached into their blazer pockets, tossed four stacks of shiny cards onto the desk, and marched out the door behind their mother with their heads held high.
As I passed Gregory Barrett, I paused, leaning down to whisper into his ear: "Next time, Gregory, teach your son to bring a thermos."
