Chapter 10 - THE SCENT OF SUNDAY GRAVY
Two weeks later, the Valenti estate was unrecognizable.
The heavy velvet curtains that Lillian had insisted on keeping drawn were thrown wide open, letting the crisp Chicago autumn sunlight flood the mahogany floors. The cold, sterile silence of the mansion had been replaced by the sound of 1950s Italian jazz drifting from the kitchen.
I stood in the doorway of the massive kitchen, leaning against the frame, watching a scene I never thought I’d witness.
Dante Valenti, the man whose name struck fear into the hearts of corrupt politicians and rival bosses, was wearing a flour-dusted apron over his expensive dress shirt, furiously chopping garlic.
“Smaller, bambino!” Rosa scolded from the stove, waving a wooden spoon at him. “You chop it like a lumberjack! The garlic must melt into the oil, not fight it!”
Dante let out a long-suffering sigh, picking up the chef’s knife again. “Rosa, I manage a multi-million-dollar syndicate. I think I can handle a clove of garlic.”
“Syndicates don't need simmering,” Rosa shot back, stirring a massive pot of deep red sauce. “Sunday gravy requires respect.”
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing.
Dante’s head snapped up. When he saw me, the frustration melted from his face instantly, replaced by a slow, devastatingly handsome smile.
“You think this is funny?” he asked, pointing the knife at me playfully.
“I think it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen,” I teased, walking into the kitchen. I was wearing a soft cream sweater and a pair of jeans, my silver locket resting over my heart.
I hadn't moved into the suburban house Dante bought me yet. Mia was finishing her semester at her old school, and Dante had insisted we stay in the guest wing until she was done. I didn't fight him hard on it. Truthfully, I didn't want to leave.
“Come here,” Dante said, abandoning the cutting board.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, not caring that his apron left a dusting of flour on my sweater. He leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn't a rushed, desperate kiss like the ones we’d shared in the aftermath of the railyard. It was slow, confident, and deeply possessive. It tasted like coffee and safety.
“Ahem,” Rosa coughed loudly, turning her back to us and aggressively stirring the sauce. “The garlic is burning, and my eyes are pure.”
Dante chuckled against my lips, pulling back slightly. He rested his forehead against mine.
“You’re a distraction, Avery Cole,” he murmured.
“I’m unemployed,” I corrected, smiling up at him. “I have a lot of free time to be distracting.”
It was true. With the trust fund secured and the Mercer threat neutralized, I had officially handed in my maid’s uniform. But sitting around the mansion was driving me crazy. My mother had raised a worker, and the idle life of the rich felt unnatural to me.
“Speaking of free time,” Dante said, his tone shifting back to business, though his hands remained gently on my waist. “Marco found something this morning. I need to show you.”
My smile faded slightly. The shadows of the past two weeks were gone, but the cleanup of the Mercer fallout was still ongoing.
“What did he find?” I asked.
Dante took my hand and led me out of the kitchen, down the long hallway toward his private study.
The study was a heavy, masculine room lined with leather-bound books and a massive oak desk. Dante walked over to the desk and picked up a worn, leather portfolio.
“When the Feds raided Arthur Mercer’s downtown office,” Dante explained, handing me the portfolio, “my guys got inside the building first. They scrubbed the safes for anything connecting Mercer to my father. Marco found this hidden under a false floorboard.”
I opened the portfolio.
Inside were dozens of black-and-white photographs, surveillance logs, and financial records. But they weren't about the Valenti syndicate.
They were about my mother.
I stared at a grainy photograph of Sarah Cole walking out of our old apartment building ten years ago. In another, she was buying groceries. In another, she was dropping me off at middle school.
“He was watching her,” I whispered, a chill running down my spine. “For fifteen years, he knew exactly where we were.”
“He knew she was alive,” Dante nodded, his jaw tight with retroactive anger. “But he didn't know if she had the recipe book. If he killed her, he risked losing the ledger forever. So he watched. He waited for her to slip up, to try and spend the money.”
I flipped a page in the log. My eyes landed on a highlighted paragraph dated three years ago. The week my mother died in the hospital.
Target deceased. Daughters relocated. No sign of Valenti assets. Recommend moving on eldest daughter, Avery. Suspect she holds the key.
A wave of nausea hit me. Lillian’s arrival in Dante’s life wasn't a coincidence. Mercer couldn't find the money through my mother, so he pivoted. He sent Lillian to seduce Dante, hoping to find the ledger inside the Valenti estate, while keeping a terrifyingly close eye on me.
“He was a monster,” I said, closing the portfolio sharply.
“He was,” Dante agreed, taking the folder from my hands and tossing it onto the desk. “But he’s a monster in a cage now. He will die in federal prison.”
Dante stepped closer, cupping my face. “I didn't show you this to scare you, Avery. I showed you because of what was in the back of the folder.”
He reached over and pulled out a single, pristine piece of paper from the very back of the portfolio.
It was a property deed.
“Mercer bought this building ten years ago through a shell company,” Dante said, handing it to me. “He used it as an observation post because it’s directly across the street from the hotel where your mother worked. Where she and my mother used to meet.”
I looked at the address. It was an old, abandoned bakery on the South Side. I remembered walking past it as a kid, staring at the dusty windows.
“Marco transferred the deed into your name this morning,” Dante said softly.
I looked up at him, stunned. “My name? Why?”
“Because you said you were bored,” Dante smiled, a genuine, heartbreakingly tender expression. “And because Rosa told me you make the best lemon ricotta cake in Chicago. My mother loved that neighborhood. Your mother worked her fingers to the bone in that neighborhood. I thought… maybe you’d want to bring something beautiful back to it.”
I stared at the deed, the tears I had promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore welling up in my eyes.
A bakery. My own bakery. In the neighborhood where my mother had fought so hard to keep us safe.
“Dante,” I choked out, throwing my arms around his neck again.
But as he held me, his phone on the desk began to buzz violently.
Dante glanced at the caller ID over my shoulder. His body went rigid.
“What is it?” I asked, pulling back.
Dante stared at the screen. “It’s Marco. He’s at the federal lockup. Arthur Mercer was supposed to be transferred to maximum security an hour ago.”
Dante answered the phone, putting it on speaker.
“Marco, tell me he’s on the bus,” Dante barked.
“Boss,” Marco’s voice sounded breathless, panicked. “He never made it to the bus. Mercer is gone. The Feds say his cell was empty this morning.”
Dante’s blood ran cold. “How does a man walk out of a federal holding cell?”
“He didn't walk out, Boss,” Marco said grimly. “Someone left a message on the cell wall. Written in blood.”
“What did it say?” Dante demanded.
May you like
Marco hesitated. “It said, ‘The Valenti debts are paid. The Mercer debt is mine.’”
TITLE: The Blood On The Cell Wall
