Chapter 3 - The Reconstruction of Baltimore
The sun had barely cleared the horizon when the black matte Maybach pulled up outside the Highlandtown apartment building.
Mrs. Adler, the seventy-two-year-old neighbor from 3B, parted her lace curtains just enough to let out a collective gasp that could have powered a small turbine. For fourteen years, the residents of this block had seen police cruisers, repo men, and debt collectors park outside these doors. They had never seen a vehicle worth more than most houses in the district idling by the curb, with two men in custom-tailored suits standing guard by the rear doors.
Inside, Caleb was already up, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his dented tin box open.
“He’s wearing a tie,” Caleb whispered loudly as Roman stepped into the apartment.
Nora, dressed in a clean gray sweater and black trousers that hid the worst of her bruises, emerged from the small bathroom. She looked at Roman, who was holding a heavy manila folder in one hand and a takeaway bag from a high-end bakery in Fells Point in the other.
“You didn't have to come back,” Nora said, though her heart did a strange, unfamiliar flip in her chest.
“I told you,” Roman said, setting the bakery bag on the small laminate table. “We are fixing things.”
He pulled out a pastry filled with fresh berries and custard, setting it in front of Caleb, who stared at it like it was a piece of alien technology.
“Eat,” Roman instructed the boy. Then he turned his attention to Nora, placing the manila folder on the table between them. “This is the deed to the triplex on Cathedral Street. It has a full kitchen, three bedrooms, an elevator, and—more importantly—secure underground parking so you don't have to take two buses in the freezing rain at four in the morning.”
Nora stared at the folder. She didn't open it. “Mr. Calder—Roman—I can't accept this. I work for you. My salary is—"
“Your salary is about to be tripled,” Roman interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you are no longer a kitchen assistant.”
Caleb stopped chewing his pastry. “Is she getting fired?”
“No, kid,” Roman said, looking down at the boy with a strange softness in his slate-colored eyes. “She’s being promoted to Executive Chef of the Calder Group. Which means she runs every kitchen in my portfolio, starting with the estate.”
Nora shook her head, a mix of disbelief and stubborn pride flushing her cheeks. “I don't have a culinary degree, Roman. I learned how to cook from my mother and from trial and error.”
“My mother was the best cook in the city,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave, the temperature in the room shifting subtly. “She didn't have a degree either. She had an instinct for what people needed before they knew they needed it. Just like you.”
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken history. Everyone in Baltimore knew the story of Elena Calder—how she had been caught in the crossfire of a dock war twenty years ago, leaving a twelve-year-old Roman to inherit a crumbling empire of debt and blood.
Nora reached across the table, her fingers—still slightly stiff from the ropes—brushing the edge of the manila folder.
“If I move into this triplex,” Nora said softly, “Caleb gets his own room?”
“He gets a room with a window that looks out over the park,” Roman replied instantly. “And a security detail that will make sure no one ever touches either of you again.”
“And you?” Nora asked, looking directly into his eyes. “What do you get out of this?”
May you like
Roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. For the first time since she had known him, the walls he had built around himself for fourteen years seemed to drop just an inch.
“I get hot coffee at 4:35 in the morning,” he said quietly. “And for the first time in my life, I don't have to drink it alone.”
