Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF FOREVER
The sun came up over the North District at seven-fifteen the next morning.
It didn't bring warmth—only a pale, cold, pearl-gray light that cut through the lingering storm clouds, illuminating the clean, white snow that had fallen over the city during the early morning hours, covering the oil, blood, and rust in a fresh, quiet shroud.
I sat in my private office on the top floor of the Grand Union Building.
The room was lined with dark walnut paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and wide panoramic windows that looked out over the entire harbor. A massive fire was crackling softly in the marble hearth, throwing warm orange light across the Oriental rug.
On my desk rested a hot cup of black espresso, an untouched silver tray of buttered toast, and a small, white cardboard box from a local pet store.
Inside the box were three chew toys, a blue leather collar with a small brass bell, and a bag of high-grade puppy food made with real chicken.
Bruno was currently lying on his back on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, his fat little stomach sticking up in the air, snoring softly as the heat from the hearth warmed his dark fur.
The heavy oak door of the office opened with a quiet, solid click.
Enzo stepped in, carrying two warm cups of coffee. He set one on my desk, his large, scarred face looking unusually exhausted.
"Vittorio?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the harbor below.
"Done," Enzo said simply. "We used the deep water off the lightship. No drum. Just thirty feet of heavy anchor chain. He won't be found until the ice melts in April."
"Moretti?"
"Jimmy O'Connor called at five AM," Enzo replied, a tiny, dark smirk touching his lips. "The South Side family has a new boss as of six o'clock this morning. Young Frankie Jr. took over. He’s already signed over twenty percent of the South Side pier rights to us as a 'gestual deposit' for maintaining the peace."
I took a slow sip of my hot espresso, feeling the rich, bitter heat spread through my throat.
"And the widow?"
"Mrs. O’Shea is at the safehouse," Enzo said. "The doctor looked her over. Broken cheekbone, severe exhaustion, but she’ll be fine. We cleared her husband's old debts with the local bookmakers. She’s clean."
"Good," I said. "Bring them up."
Enzo nodded, stepping back into the hallway.
A minute later, the double doors opened again.
Clara O’Shea walked into the room. She was wearing a clean wool dress that my house staff had purchased for her this morning, her wet hair brushed back neatly, a white bandage resting over her left cheekbone. She looked small in the grand office, but her eyes were clear, her shoulders straight, the terror that had consumed her for three years finally gone.
Beside her, holding her hand tightly, was Elena.
The little girl was wearing a pair of new black leather boots that actually fitted her small feet, a warm yellow sweater, and a dark blue coat with real silver buttons.
The moment she saw the fire, her eyes went wide.
Then she saw the puppy lying on the rug.
"Bruno!" she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
The small black dog's ears twitched. He scrambled to his feet, his tiny tail wagging so fast his entire hindquarters wiggled, and trotted across the carpet on his short legs, barking a tiny, high-pitched YIP as he threw himself against her new leather boots.
Elena dropped to her knees, burying her face in the dog's warm fur, laughing—a bright, clear, beautiful sound that seemed to fill every corner of the vast, quiet room, washing away sixty years of dark memories from the walnut walls.
Mrs. O’Shea stood near the door, her hands clasped together, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she looked at me sitting behind my massive desk.
"Don Carmine," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I... I don't know how to thank you. Enzo told me what you did with the drive... what you did for Patrick's memory."
"Your husband was a fool, Mrs. O’Shea," I said, standing up from my chair and walking around the desk. "He thought he could play dangerous men against each other with a piece of silicon. But he loved his family. That was his only saving grace."
I stopped three feet from where Elena was sitting on the rug, her arms wrapped tightly around the squirming, happy puppy.
I slowly knelt down beside her, the joints in my knees making their usual dry cracking sound.
Elena looked up from the dog, her small face glowing with the heat of the fire.
"He likes the chicken food," she whispered, pointing to the empty bowl near the hearth.
"I know," I said. "I read the instructions you gave me."
She sat up straight, her small hands dropping to her lap, her face taking on that solemn, serious expression she had worn under the awning in the rain.
She looked at the dog. She looked at me.
Then she reached down, picked Bruno up in her arms, and held him out toward me with both hands.
"He's yours now," she whispered, her bottom lip giving a tiny, barely perceptible quiver that she tried desperately to hide. "A deal's a deal. You saved my mommy."
I looked at the tiny black dog hanging between her hands. I looked at the little girl who was willing to give up her entire heart to buy her mother's life.
I didn't take the dog.
Instead, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small piece of thick white paper—a formal, notarized certificate bearing the golden seal of the Grand Union Holding Corporation.
I laid it gently on the carpet between us.
"Read the top line, Elena," I said softly.
The girl leaned over, her brow furrowing as her thin finger traced the raised gold lettering on the heavy paper.
"'Contract of... Employment,'" she read slowly, her third-grade reading skills working hard through the large words. "'Between Don Carmine... and Bruno O'Shea.'"
She stopped, looking up at me with wide, confused eyes. "Bruno has a job?"
"He has a very important job," I said, resting my hands on my knees. "He has been appointed the Chief Security Officer of the safehouse on 88th Street. His duties include sleeping under your pillow, keeping the pipe noises away at night, and eating warm chicken crusts every morning."
Elena’s mouth opened slightly in complete shock. "He gets paid?"
"He gets paid two hundred dollars a week," I said, my tone entirely serious. "Which will be deposited directly into a college savings account in your name every Friday morning until you turn eighteen."
The little girl stared at the paper. She looked at the puppy in her arms. She looked at her mother, who was covering her mouth with both hands, weeping silently by the door.
"You're... you're not keeping him?" Elena whispered.
"I'm sixty-two years old, piccola," I said, a small, genuine smile touching the corners of my mouth for the first time in ten years. "I'm too old to have a dog sleeping under my pillow. Besides... he wouldn't fit under mine anyway."
Elena looked at me for three long seconds.
Then, without a word, she dropped the puppy onto the rug, stepped forward, and wrapped her small, warm arms tightly around my neck.
Her head rested against the lapel of my heavy wool suit, her small chest heaving as she let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure, complete safety.
I stood there, kneeling on the cold Oriental rug of my office, a seven-year-old child clinging to my neck, while the most feared mafia boss in the city gently rested his large, scarred hand over her back, protecting her from the dark world outside the high glass windows.
Enzo stood near the door, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, wiping a speck of dust from his eye with the back of his heavy, scarred knuckle.
"Don Carmine?" Elena whispered into my collar.
"Yes, piccola?"
"You're not scary at all," she said softly.
May you like
I looked over her shoulder at the warm fire crackling in the hearth, at the little black dog currently trying to chew on my bespoke leather shoe, and at the white snow falling peacefully over the city below.
"Don't tell anyone," I whispered back. "It's bad for business."
