Chapter 10 - The Last Dance
Six months later, the foundation was running like a well-oiled machine, and my life had transformed into something I never could have imagined in my wildest, most desperate restaurant-server dreams. I no longer counted pennies, worried about rent, or swallowed my pride for ungrateful customers. I gave speeches, managed multimillion-dollar grants, and advocated for hundreds of kids who reminded me every day of my younger brother.
Yet, every Wednesday evening at precisely 8:00 PM, I returned to the West Side estate.
Tonight, the conservatory was lit by hundreds of flickering candles, casting warm, golden glows across the lush green palms. A single record player spun a soft, melancholic jazz tune in the corner—music Salvatore couldn't hear, but enjoyed feeling through the heavy wooden floors and the vibrations in the air.
He sat at the wrought-iron table, a chessboard set up between us just like the first night we met. But the pieces weren't arranged for battle; they were set up for a casual, comfortable game between two people who no longer needed to hide behind armor or reputation.
I walked over, pulling out the chair opposite him, and placed a cup of hot espresso beside his hand.
Salvatore looked up, his scarred face breaking into that rare, completely unguarded smile that only I ever got to see. He raised his hands slowly.
You’re late.
“Traffic on Michigan Avenue was a nightmare,” I signed back with a playful grin, leaning forward across the table. “Turns out running a legitimate empire attracts a lot of public attention.”
Then maybe you should quit your day job and work for me full-time, his fingers flashed, his eyes twinkling with a warm, dangerous affection. I heard the head of security position is opening up. Marcus is retiring to Florida.
“I’m an executive director, Salvatore, not a hitman,” I laughed, moving my knight across the board.
Who said anything about hitting people? Salvatore signed, leaning back in his chair with a quiet, rumbling chuckle. I just need someone who isn't afraid to look me in the eye and tell me when I’m being an idiot.
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“That,” I signed, tapping my chest with a confident smile, “is going to cost you a very hefty salary increase, Mr. Marquetti.”
He reached across the checkered board, his rough, scarred fingers lightly brushing over mine in a warm, steady grip that felt like home. For the first time in my life, the silence between us wasn't a wall, or a void, or a weapon—it was simply a bridge to a future we were building together, one quiet, perfect sign at a time.
