Chapter 10 - The Last Debt
The dinner at the Society Hill townhouse was loud, filled with Lizzie’s non-stop chatter about her school friends and the smell of roasting chicken and butter. Clara sat across from Elliot, her face glowing in the warm candlelight, her eyes tracking the way Elliot handled her daughter—with a gentle, awkward reverence that looked entirely out of place on a man of his reputation.
After Lizzie had been put to bed, her wooden doll tucked under her arm, Elliot and Clara stood on the small brick balcony overlooking the quiet courtyard. The city sounds were distant here, a low hum of traffic and river boats.
"You've given us a life I didn't think existed, Elliot," Clara said quietly, her hands resting on the iron railing. She turned to look at him, her dark hair catching the silver moonlight. "When I was lying on that floor on Westmore Street, I thought it was over. I thought Lizzie would end up in a state home, or worse... with Wayne's family. You saved her. You saved both of us."
"Lizzie saved herself," Elliot said, staring out at the river. "She walked into a place where men twice her size tremble, and she demanded that I listen to her. I’ve never seen that kind of courage before, Clara. Not in my line of work."
Clara took a step closer to him, her hand reaching out to touch his bandaged forearm. The touch was light, but it carried a warmth that sent a sudden, electric shock through his chest.
"And what about you, Elliot?" she asked softly. "Who saves you from your world?"
Elliot looked down at her face, seeing the genuine, uncritical affection in her eyes—the look of a woman who didn't see the mafia boss, the enforcer, or the criminal. She just saw the man who had answered her daughter’s cry.
"I don't need saving, Clara," he said, though his voice lacked its usual certainty.
"Everyone needs saving sometimes, Elliot," she whispered.
Before he could answer, the silence of the courtyard was broken by the sharp, rhythmic ringing of his private phone. Elliot pulled it from his pocket, his face hardening instantly as he saw Marco’s name on the screen.
"Pierce," he said, turning away from Clara.
"Boss, it’s done," Marco’s voice came through the line, tight and filled with a solemn gravity. "Don Moretti passed away an hour ago in his sleep. The family is in chaos. The young captains are already moving toward the North Sector. They’re trying to seize the shipping lines before the morning."
Elliot closed his eyes for a single, heavy second. The old man was gone. The peace was over. The war he had avoided three months ago was finally arriving at his doorstep.
"Assemble the men at the warehouse near Pier 42," Elliot ordered, his voice dropping into that icy, clinical register that left no room for doubt. "We meet them at the border. If they want my shipping lines, they’re going to have to pay for them in blood."
He hung up the phone and turned back to Clara. She had heard his tone; she knew the look on his face. The fear was back in her eyes, but she didn't shrink away from him.
"You have to go," she said, her voice shaking.
"Yes," Elliot said. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching her jawline, his thumb brushing the small silver scar near her temple. "Stay inside. Keep the doors locked. Marco’s men are on the perimeter. I’ll be back before dawn."
"Promise me, Elliot," she pleaded, her hands grabbing his coat. "Promise me you’ll come back."
May you like
Elliot looked at her, then looked toward the upstairs window where Lizzie was sleeping peacefully under his protection.
"I promise," he said.
