The front-operation overseer, who had been hesitating over my severance papers just minutes ago, now stepped forward without a word. His expression had changed completely.
He picked up the document.
Signed it.
Stamped it.
Approved.
No questions asked. No delay.
Salvatore didn't even come out. He didn't look at the form. Didn't ask anything. Someone brought it into his office, and while he was busy comforting Adriana, he scribbled his signature across the page without even glancing at it.
Then tossed it aside like it meant nothing.
Like I meant nothing.
The finance people moved quickly after that.
Too quickly.
Always eager to stay on the good side of whoever held power in the Family's front operation, they rushed to process my final pay, efficiency driven not by professionalism but by their desire to please the Don's favorite.
I still had work to finish. A stack of client materials from the hotel accounts that needed to be handed over properly. So I sat down, sorted everything, organized the files carefully, and prepared to send them to Salvatore.
But the moment I tried to log into my account, access denied.
I tried again.
Nothing.
My account had already been deleted. Completely wiped.