Chapter 11 - THE BLOOD ON THE CELL WALL
The silence in the study was absolute, save for the faint, tinny static of Marco’s breathing on the speakerphone.
“Who took him?” Dante asked, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy register he reserved for his enemies.
“We don't know, Boss,” Marco replied, the tension clear in his gruff tone. “The feds are scrambling. The security cameras in the cell block looped for ten minutes at 3:00 AM. When the guards checked at 3:15, Mercer was gone, and the message was on the wall. No signs of struggle. He was ghosted.”
Dante’s jaw tightened. He hung up the phone and slammed both hands onto the oak desk, bowing his head.
“Dante,” I whispered, stepping closer to him. “Who would want to take Arthur Mercer? If he’s out… is he coming for us?”
Dante slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes were stormy, calculating every possible angle.
“He’s not coming for us, Avery,” Dante said, his voice flat. “Someone came for him.”
“Who?”
Dante walked over to the massive window overlooking the estate’s manicured lawns. He stared out at the iron gates, deep in thought.
“Arthur Mercer made a lot of enemies in the fifteen years he spent looking for my mother’s ledger,” Dante explained softly. “He promised rival families a cut of the Valenti fortune to buy their patience. When Lillian failed, and Mercer was arrested, those families realized they were never getting paid.”
“You think a rival syndicate broke him out?” I asked, shivering at the thought of the ruthless men who populated Dante’s world.
“I don't think they broke him out to save him,” Dante said, turning back to me, his expression grim. “‘The Mercer debt is mine.’ That’s not a rescue message, Avery. That’s an execution notice.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Mercer had destroyed my mother’s life. He had ordered Dante’s mother to be killed. I hated him with every fiber of my being. But the idea of him being dragged into the dark to face the brutal justice of the mob made me sick.
“Will they come after Lillian, too?” I asked.
Dante shook his head. “Lillian is still in the hospital under federal guard. She’s safe. The people who took Mercer don't care about the daughter. They want the man who promised them the sun and delivered them to the FBI.”
Dante walked back to me, placing his warm hands on my shoulders.
“This is the life I am trying to leave behind, Avery,” he said, his voice laced with a profound exhaustion. “This endless cycle of blood and debt. I’m done with it. I’m taking the legitimate businesses, the real estate, and I am cutting the Valenti name out of the underworld.”
“Can you do that?” I asked, searching his eyes. “Will they just let you walk away?”
“They will,” Dante said fiercely. “Because with Mercer gone, and the Feds tearing the city apart looking for him, the families will go to ground. And when they resurface, they’ll find that Dante Valenti is no longer a mob boss. He’s just a businessman.”
He pulled me into his chest, resting his chin on the top of my head.
“I promise you, Avery,” Dante whispered into my hair. “The violence ends here. It ends with Arthur Mercer. From now on, this family builds.”
Over the next three months, Dante kept his promise.
He moved with ruthless efficiency, but not with guns. He used lawyers, accountants, and the vast, decoded fortune my mother had protected. He sold off the illegal shipping operations, shut down the underground casinos, and severed ties with the old captains of his father’s regime.
He didn't fire his men; he offered them a choice. Go legitimate, or leave. Marco stayed, trading his tactical gear for tailored suits, becoming the head of security for Valenti Enterprises.
And I didn't stay idle.
I took the deed Dante had given me and poured my heart into the abandoned bakery on the South Side. We tore down the boarded windows, scrubbed the brick walls, and installed massive, gleaming industrial ovens.
Mia thrived in her new private school, her laughter returning, the trauma of the railyard fading into a bad memory. She spent her weekends at the bakery, “testing” pastries and doing homework in the corner booth.
And Rosa? Rosa was in her element. She moved into the estate full-time, running the household with an iron wooden spoon, and insisting on coming to the bakery every Tuesday to teach my new staff how to properly knead dough.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in early December. The first snow of the season was falling lightly on the Chicago streets.
The bell above the bakery door chimed, bringing in a rush of cold air and the scent of pine.
I looked up from the cash register, wiping flour off my apron.
Dante walked in. He looked breathtaking in a long, dark wool coat, snow dusting his broad shoulders. The bakery was full of customers, but the moment he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto mine, ignoring everyone else in the room.
He walked up to the counter, a soft, private smile playing on his lips.
“Table for one?” I teased, leaning over the glass pastry case.
“Actually, I’m here for the owner,” Dante said, his voice a low rumble that still sent a shiver down my spine. “I hear she works too hard and needs to be taken out to dinner.”
“I close in twenty minutes,” I smiled, reaching out to brush a snowflake from his lapel.
“I’ll wait,” Dante said.
As I turned to help the last few customers, Dante walked over to the corner booth where Mia was doing her math homework. He sat across from her, sliding a small, wrapped box across the table. Mia’s eyes lit up, and she tore into it, revealing a new set of expensive drawing pencils.
I watched them, my heart swelling until I thought it might burst.
The feared mafia boss of Chicago was sitting in a bakery, helping a fourteen-year-old girl with her algebra.
We had done it. We had survived the fire, the betrayal, and the ghosts of our parents. We had built something beautiful out of the ashes.
I finished ringing up the last customer, flipped the open sign to closed, and walked out from behind the counter.
But as I reached Dante’s booth, Marco stepped into the bakery.
The ex-mob enforcer looked pale. He was holding a small, brown cardboard box in his hands. It had no return address.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice tight. “This was just delivered to the estate. The guards scanned it. No explosives. But… it was addressed to you.”
Dante stood up, his relaxed demeanor instantly vanishing. He stepped between me and the box.
“Open it,” Dante commanded.
Marco placed the box on a table and used his pocket knife to cut the tape. He opened the flaps and looked inside.
Marco swallowed hard, taking a step back.
Dante walked over and looked into the box.
He didn't speak. He just reached in and pulled out the object, holding it up so I could see.
It was a heavy, gold pocket watch.
The glass face was shattered. The gold was dented and stained with dark, dried blood.
May you like
Arthur Mercer’s watch.
TITLE: The Time Stops Beating
