Chapter 5 - A New Foundation
The rain had begun to lessen by the time dawn broke over the eastern horizon of Lake Michigan.
The storm clouds parted into long, bruised streaks of purple, gold, and grey, casting a soft, clear light across the wet stone courtyard of the Romano estate.
By six o'clock in the morning, five black armored SUVs were parked in a neat, precise row along the limestone driveway.
Forty loyal soldiers—men brought in from the West Side crews by my senior capo, Marco Vanzetti—stood along the perimeter walls, their dark overcoats buttoned against the morning chill, their faces somber, disciplined, and alert.
The bodies of Frankie Santoro, Silvio Rossi, and the three mercenaries had already been removed in unmarked vans, their names erased from the family payrolls before the morning sun reached the tops of the oak trees.
The betrayal was over. The war was officially finished.
Inside the estate's primary living quarters, the lights were back on, glowing warm and bright through the massive leaded-glass windows.
In the master guest suite on the second floor—a sunlit room featuring a king-sized mahogany bed, hand-woven Persian rugs, and a private fireplace—Sarah Williams sat propped up against three plush silk pillows.
Her face was pale, but the burning fever that had threatened her life twelve hours ago had finally broken, thanks to the aggressive treatment administered by my personal physician, Dr. Mercer, whom I had summoned to the house at four in the morning.
Sitting on the edge of the large bed, wearing a fresh, clean pair of pink fleece pajamas provided by the estate staff, was Zoe.
She was eating a massive stack of blueberry pancakes from a silver tray, her small face completely clean of shoe polish, her dark curls brushed out into soft, shining ringlets around her ears. Her battered, one-eyed teddy bear sat beside her plate, propped up against a glass of fresh orange juice.
I stood in the open doorway, my hands resting in the pockets of a clean, charcoal-gray wool suit.
Sarah looked up from her tea mug as I stepped into the room.
When she saw me, she immediately tried to throw back the covers and stand up, her face filled with sudden, instinctive anxiety. "Mr. Romano... oh God, sir... I’m so sorry... Zoe told me what she did down in the basement—"
"Sit down, Sarah," I commanded softly, stepping forward and placing a gentle, firm hand on her shoulder, pressing her back against the pillows. "You’re sick. The doctor said you need three days of absolute rest."
"Sir, the shoes..." Sarah whispered, her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at me. "She ruined your French shoes... I’ll pay for them, Mr. Romano. I’ll work extra shifts... I’ll clean the entire east wing by myself—"
"Sarah," I interrupted, my voice firmer this time. "Look at me."
She stopped speaking, her jaw trembling as she looked into my eyes.
"Your daughter did not ruin my shoe," I said, pulling a folded piece of paper from my inner jacket pocket and laying it gently on the bed sheet beside her tray. "She saved my life. And she saved this house."
Sarah looked down at the drawing.
She saw the crude crayon lines of the stone lions, the tall figure with the rifle, and the bold, crimson X drawn across his chest. She knew what it meant. She had heard enough whispers around the estate over the last six months to understand the danger that had been lurking in the shadows.
"Zoe is no longer a housekeeper’s daughter," I announced, turning my head to look at the little girl who was currently stuffing a large piece of pancake into her mouth. "And you are no longer a housekeeper, Sarah."
Sarah blinked, confused. "Sir?"
"Effective this morning," I said, setting a heavy leather folder on the bedside table, "the Romano Foundation is establishing an educational trust in Zoe’s name. It covers her tuition through private school, university, and medical or law school—wherever her talent takes her."
Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, tears spilling over her lashes and running down her pale cheeks. "Mr. Romano... no... we can't accept that... it’s too much—"
"It is not a gift, Sarah," I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, absolute tone that allowed no further argument. "It is a debt. Michael Romano always pays his debts. To his enemies... and to his friends."
I looked at Sarah, my expression softening slightly.
"As for you," I added, "as soon as you are fully recovered, you will assume the position of Head of Estate Logistics. You will manage the entire domestic staff, you will set the schedules, and you will report directly to me. No middle-men. No Underbosses."
Sarah buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent, overwhelming sobs of relief.
I turned away from the bed, stepping toward the high french windows that looked out over the northern lawn.
Out in the courtyard, two estate groundskeepers were walking along the stone path, carrying heavy copper lanterns to replace the ones damaged during the night storm.
A soft, small impact hit the side of my trousers.
I looked down.
Zoe had slid off the bed and walked over to me. She was standing beside my leather boots, holding something up toward my hand.
It was the ruined John Lobb Oxford.
She had spent ten minutes before breakfast using a soft cloth to rub a fresh layer of clear wax over the gouged leather, trying her best to smooth out the deep white scratches she had made with the wire brush.
It still looked terrible. The leather was ruined, the grain destroyed, the shape warped by thick black paste.
It was, without question, the worst-looking pair of shoes in the entire state of Illinois.
"I tried to make it prettier, Mr. Romano," Zoe whispered, looking up at me with her wide, dark eyes, her brown curls bouncing around her face. "Is it okay now?"
I slowly dropped to one knee on the hand-woven Persian rug.
I took the ruined shoe from her tiny hands with both of mine, holding it as carefully as if it were a priceless religious artifact carved from ancient marble.
"It’s perfect, Zoe," I said softly, looking her directly in the eye. "In fact, I’m going to keep it on my desk in the library. So every time a dangerous man comes into my office to talk about power, I can look at this shoe and remember who really runs Chicago."
Zoe beamed. A bright, dazzling, joyful smile lit up her small face, revealing a missing tooth on her left side.
She reached out, wrapped her small, warm arms around my neck, and gave me a quick, tight hug before turning around and running back to her pancakes on the bed.
May you like
I stood up slowly, holding the ruined leather shoe against my side.
I looked out the window at the rising sun cutting through the blue mist over Lake Michigan, casting a golden, brilliant warmth across the stone fortress that had finally, for the first time in my life, begun to feel like a real home.
