8. Chapter 8
Barry Trello twisted the key in the safe deposit box, his fingers trembling with greedy anticipation.
The faint click as the lock was released was music to his ears.
Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the diamond brooch from the box, the stone glittering in the dim basement light.
His thumb stroked the gem, the corners of his lips stretching into a weaselly grin.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” he muttered, his voice nasal, greedy, the words meant only for himself.
“Uh… boss?”
Barry jumped so hard he nearly dropped the brooch.
With a hiss, he tossed it back into the lock box and slammed the lid shut, twisting the key before jamming the box back into place and the key into his jacket pocket.
His eyes darted around the storage room, beady and suspicious, making sure everything looked as it should.
He shouldn’t even be down here alone. Everyone knew that.
But he always played it off as part of his “monthly inspections,” strutting through the nursing home, playing the benevolent warden.
He was the Nursing Home Manager, after all.
And if the manager just happened to have duplicate keys to every resident’s security box—well, that was just “protocol.”
At least, that’s what he’d tell anyone stupid enough to ask.
And if any employee did ask? Barry smirked, patting the pocket where the key pressed against his hip.
Then their lockers would be searched, and—miraculously—something belonging to another resident would be found inside.
He had a whole stash of stolen trinkets set aside for moments like that.
Watches, rings, even a pearl necklace or two.
He could frame an employee in under ten minutes flat.
He’d done it before and had no problem with using that form of punishment again.
Fear kept people obedient. And obedience was profitable.
Hell, he sometimes planted stolen items just for fun, just to remind his staff—and the residents—that he controlled everything.
He’d had more than one poor sap frog-marched out in handcuffs, swearing their innocence, while Barry shook his head sadly for the cameras.
Crocodile tears went a long way when you wanted to look respectable.
He pulled the heavy steel door open and scribbled a checkmark onto the clipboard, pretending it was just another routine inspection. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. He had inspected the box. Just like he inspected them every month, cataloguing the hidden treasures of the old and forgetful.
And when something “valuable” disappeared, well… most of these doddering fools didn’t even remember what they’d stored in the lock boxes in the first place. If he swapped a diamond for a cubic zirconia, who was really hurt?
“What’s wrong?” Barry asked at last, his tone clipped as he slid his pen down the checklist, his narrow eyes flicking up at his assistant.
Matthew smoothed his tie nervously, the way a man might pet a snake, hoping it wouldn’t bite. “I just got word from my contacts at the courthouse. Evangeline Santini’s granddaughter was just appointed her guardian and conservator for the estate.”
Barry froze, his fingers tightening on the clipboard until the cheap wood creaked under the strain. His lips curled, the sneer transforming his face into something rat-like.
“Of course she was,” he hissed, then transformed his expression into smooth professionalism.
Barry sighed loudly, as though the entire world existed only to bore him. “So what?” he muttered, making a lazy checkmark on the clipboard before ambling toward the stairs. He’d pretend to “inspect” the kitchens next. Not that he gave a damn.
Nutrition? Cleanliness? None of that mattered to him.
If one of the geezers complained that the food was tasteless or the peas were still frozen in the middle, he’d handle it the same way he handled every complaint—ignore it until the complainer shut up or “accidentally” lost their dentures.
Barry didn’t have to eat the swill himself, so why would he care if it was powdered potatoes and reheated slop?
Matthew cleared his throat. “So, Ms. Santini isn’t coming back.
She was checked out this morning for her guardianship hearing.
” He hesitated, eyes darting away. Nobody liked holding Barry’s gaze for long—it was like staring down a rabid rat.
“Mia Calvino called to say she’s stopping by for her grandmother’s things. ”
That made Barry stop dead on the stairwell.
Evangeline Santini. One of his richest residents.
The woman had no idea Barry had been cashing her dividend checks every month, pocketing thousands while feeding her sedative-laced milk to keep her quiet and oblivious.
He’d been bleeding her dry with phony invoices—wheelchair repairs that never happened, “therapy fees” for therapists who didn’t exist, medical invoices for services that never happened. It had been perfect. Easy.
And now she was leaving? Just like that?
“She can’t leave,” Barry croaked, a flicker of panic clawing at his chest. If she left for good, those invoices and payments would stop.
His little gravy train would screech to a halt, not to mention, Vito Calvino—Minneapolis’s shiny new mob boss—would be up Barry’s ass demanding answers for how Evangeline was allowed to leave.
Barry had promised to keep the old bat docile, tucked neatly out of the way, while Vito schemed for her fortune.
No, no, this couldn’t be happening.
But then he forced his breathing to slow. He reminded himself that he had connections. He was working with Vito Calvino, after all. The man might be a mobster, but he knew how to make problems disappear.
Barry pretended to focus on the clipboard in his hands, skimming down the long checklist. Worthless, of course.
He never checked anything. But people respected clipboards.
He’d read that somewhere. All a person had to do was carry one around and suddenly you looked official.
Professional. The truth was, he’d rather die than bend over to inspect a furnace filter or a freezer temperature gauge.
“Assign Marta to pack up Ms. Santini’s things,” he said at last, his tone dismissive, “but leave the room unoccupied.” He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “She’ll be back. Old bats like her always come crawling back before too long.”
With that, he trundled up the stairs, already thinking about what the kitchen was butchering for lunch. Not that he cared. He’d cut the food budget yet again this month, and the menu showed it. Gray meatloaf, watered-down soup, maybe some slimy vegetables from a can.
The kitchen manager had quit last week in protest, which Barry had celebrated. It gave him the perfect opportunity to shove one of the hourly line cooks into the job without a raise. Another salary saved, another win for his ledger.
“Save, save, save,” Barry hummed under his breath, his lips twitching. The private equity firm that owned this dump didn’t care about the health outcomes or resident happiness. All they cared about was the profit margins.
And Barry? Well, Barry was an investor too. He liked those profits. He liked them a lot.