Chapter 8 - The Price of the Contract
The ride back to Girard Estate was silent until the Escalade turned into the driveway of the brick house behind the convent. The snow had begun to fall, soft and white, covering the dark brick walls in a layer of clean lace that made the neighborhood look like an old postcard from the fifties.
Dominic walked into the kitchen through the back door, his shoes wet from the pier, his wool coat heavy with the scent of river salt and cold iron.
Elena was sitting at the wooden table, a cup of chamomile tea between her hands, her eyes fixed on the small baby monitor that connected her to Leo’s room upstairs. She looked up when the door opened, her face tightening as she saw the dark smudge of oil on his sleeve.
“Is it over?” she asked, her voice a rough whisper.
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He took off his coat, hung it neatly over the back of the chair, and sat down across from her at the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, blue-bound folder—the original social security annuity documents that Jimmy had tried to steal from her drawer two weeks ago.
He set them down on the table between them, his large, clean hand pressing the paper flat against the wood.
“Jimmy signed the waiver, Elena,” Dominic said softly. “He signed it in the back of Lou Rossi’s car before they hit the bridge back to Delaware. He’s legally surrendered all parental rights to Leo. He’s moving to Florida tomorrow morning on a fruit transport truck. You won't see his name on a piece of mail for the rest of your life.”
Elena stared at the blue folder. Her hands began to shake, her fingers releasing the cup of tea until it rattled against the saucer. A single, heavy tear spilled over her lashes, landing on the blue cardboard with a tiny, soft tap.
“How much did it cost you, Dominic?” she whispered, her eyes lifting to meet his green gaze through her tears. “I know how men like you work. You don't get a signature from a man like Jimmy without paying the price.”
“It cost twenty grand, Elena,” Dominic said, his voice flat and honest. “The price of his debt to the Chester crew.”
Elena let out a short, ragged sob, her head dropping into her hands as the weight of six years of terror, debt, and running finally collapsed around her shoulders. “Twenty thousand dollars… I can’t pay you back, Dominic. I’ll be ninety years old before I can save that kind of money from the kitchen work—you’ve turned me into a debtor to the biggest family in the city—”
Dominic stood up from his chair. He walked around the table, his long strides silent on the rug, until he stood directly behind her. He didn't reach down to touch her shoulders; he simply stood there like a wall of wool and stone, his shadow blocking out the cold draft from the window.
“You aren't a debtor, Elena,” Dominic murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private cadence that belonged only to her. “The money wasn't a loan. It was an investment.”
She lifted her head, her face wet, her hazel eyes filled with a desperate, beautiful confusion. “An investment in what?”
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“In the future of my house,” Dominic said. He knelt down beside her chair, his large hand reaching out to catch her fingers, his touch warm, steady, and completely devoid of the violence he had practiced on the pier. “My father is going to die before the spring, Elena. The doctors told me this morning his heart is giving out. When he goes, I will be the head of this family. I will have the money, the docks, and the men on Tenth Street.”
He lifted her hand until her knuckles brushed against his cheek where the skin was warm and rough from the winter wind. “But a house without a foundation is just a building waiting for a storm. I don't want a woman who looks at my money and sees a balance sheet, Elena. I want the woman who looked at my gun and told me the carrots weren't finished.”
