Chapter 7 - The Dawn after the Storm
The blizzard had cleared by 5:00 AM, leaving the city buried under a thick, pristine sheet of white snow.
The Escalade pulled into the driveway of the estate. The gates were open, guarded by four fresh security men wearing heavy winter gear. The front doors of the house were secured, the blood in the hallway cleaned up by a professional crew Luke had summoned while we were downtown.
I rolled into the basement wine cellar alone, the electric motor humming quietly against the quiet concrete walls.
I stopped in front of the heavy steel panic room door and typed the code into the keypad: 0-4-1-9.
The heavy hydraulic bolts disengaged with a loud thunk, and the door slowly swung open.
Emma was sitting on the leather sofa, the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, her eyes wide as she looked up. She was still holding the small notebook she had found on the side table, her face pale from hours of waiting in the dark.
When she saw me rolling through the doorway—unharmed, my coat dusted with dry snow—she let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for five hours.
"You came back," she whispered.
"I told you I would," I said, rolling up to the sofa.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a small black velvet pouch, and dropped it onto her lap.
She looked at the pouch, then up at me. "What is this?"
"The deeds to your mother's memory care facility," I said flatly. "I bought the building three hours ago while Luke was cleaning up the mess downtown. The debt collectors will never call you again. Your mother's care is paid for life."
Emma stared at the pouch, her fingers hovering over the velvet, unable to touch it. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you didn't give up my gate code," I said, my voice softening just a fraction. "Russo had a duplicate card from Marcus, but he told me he tried to buy your help first. He offered you fifty thousand dollars to unlock the side entrance. You told him to go to hell."
She looked down at her lap, a quiet tear spilling over her eyelashes. "I don't sell people out. Not even for money."
"I know," I said. "That's why you're not a maid anymore."
She blinked, wiping her eye with the back of her sleeve. "What?"
"I need someone who isn't afraid of me to manage this house," I said, looking around the cold, concrete cellar before meeting her eyes again. "I need someone who tells me the truth when I'm being a bastard. The job pays one hundred thousand a year. You start today."
Emma looked at me for a long time—searching my face, looking past the wheelchair, past the expensive coat, past the reputation of the mob boss who had just retaken a city. She saw a man who was broken, yes, but one who was finally fighting his way out of the grave he had built for himself.
"Do I still have to make sure you only take one pill every six hours?" she asked, a tiny, tentative smile cracking through her exhaustion.
For the first time in two full years, a genuine, low laugh pulled from my chest.
"Yes, Emma," I said, reaching out and offering her my hand. "You still have to do that."
May you like
She looked at my large, calloused hand—the hand that had held a gun, signed million-dollar deals, and reclaimed an empire—and slowly placed her smaller, scarred hand into mine.
"Then I accept the job," she said softly.
