Chapter 8 - The Verdict of the Silent
The final echo of the old world arrived in October, in the form of a certified letter from a law firm in Chicago.
Victor Vale had died in the hospital facility at the age of seventy-two. The stroke had finally taken the rest of his lungs, leaving behind a estate that had been completely dismantled by the federal asset forfeiture division, save for one private trust that had been established before the syndicate’s collapse.
The letter was delivered to the marina, where Adrian was working on the hull of an old wooden sailboat. He sat on a overturned crate, the smell of sawdust and varnish thick in the air, while Tom stood by the door, his hand instinctively resting near his hip where his weapon used to live.
"The old man left a will," Adrian said, looking at the legal document in his hand. "He left the Lake Forest property to the state to cover the legal fees. He left Julian his personal gold watch—the one he took off the Lucchese captain in '94. And he left this."
He pulled a small, yellowed piece of paper from the envelope. It wasn't a legal document; it was a page torn from an old ledger book, written in Victor’s neat, old-fashioned script.
“To my eldest son,” the letter read. “You were the best weapon I ever made. It’s a pity you chose to be a man instead. The twins have the jaw line. Don't let them forget where the steel came from.”
Adrian looked at the note for five seconds. Then he picked up the small butane torch he used for sealing wire connections, clicked the igniter, and held the flame against the corner of the paper.
The old man’s words caught instantly, turning into a bright, blue flare that consumed the ledger page in a matter of seconds. Adrian dropped the burning ash into a metal bucket, watching the black flakes dissolve into the gray dust at the bottom.
"Is that the end of it, boss?" Tom asked, his voice quiet.
May you like
Adrian stood up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He looked out the wide doors of the boat shop toward the lake, where the autumn wind was kicking up small, white caps on the blue water.
"The end was five years ago, Tom," Adrian said, picking up his sander. "This is just the cleanup detail. Let’s get this hull finished. The owner wants it in the water before the first frost."
