Chapter 7 - THE POCKET WATCH
"Absolutely not," Dante said, his voice instantly dropping into the commanding tone of a man who was used to total obedience. "You are not contacting Marco Vance. He is a ruthless killer. You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"I know he wants what I have," I countered, sitting up straight. The exhaustion in my bones was entirely burned away by a mother's—a grandmother's—fury. "If Ben forged my signature to steal the trust, then legally, I am still the executor. Marco Vance needs my legitimate signature to sell that warehouse to the casino developers. I have leverage."
Elena leaned forward, her eyes wide. "Helen, you can't negotiate with the mob. They'll just kill you and forge your signature themselves."
"They could have done that twenty years ago if it were that easy," I pointed out. "But they didn't. They waited. Because a forged signature on a multi-million dollar casino deal is too risky. It invites federal investigation. Vance wants it done clean. Ben promised him clean, but Ben failed."
Dante stared at me, a slow glimmer of respect replacing the initial shock on his face. "You're playing a very dangerous game for a waitress, Helen."
"I've spent thirty years carrying trays, Mr. Marino," I said coldly. "I know how to balance heavy things without dropping them."
The SUV turned off the main highway, passing through a massive set of wrought-iron gates flanked by armed guards. We drove up a long, winding driveway until we reached a sprawling stone mansion lit up against the night sky.
As soon as we were inside the warmth of the grand foyer, Dante ordered his staff to prepare guest rooms for Claire and Toby.
"I'm not leaving you, Grandma," Toby mumbled sleepily as Claire tried to carry him upstairs.
My heart melted. I walked over and kissed his warm forehead. "I'll be right downstairs, Toby. I promise. Nobody is going to hurt you ever again."
As Claire carried him away, Dante led me into a massive, wood-paneled study. A fire was roaring in the hearth. He poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter and handed one to me.
"Drink," he ordered softly. "It'll help the nerves."
I took a sip. It burned going down, but it settled the ice in my stomach.
"My men have Benjamin," Dante said, leaning against his mahogany desk. "He's locked in a secure room in the basement. He's unharmed, but he's terrified. What do you want me to do with him?"
I looked into the fire. A few hours ago, I would have begged Dante to spare him. I would have offered my life for his. But the image of my grandson shivering in that thin sweater, evicted onto the street, shattered any illusion I had left about my son.
"Keep him locked up," I said quietly. "Until this is over. He doesn't get to run away this time."
Dante nodded. He reached into his pocket and placed a heavy, gold pocket watch on the desk between us.
"This belonged to the man you hit with the cake server in the alley," Dante said. "My men recovered it from his body before the police arrived. Look at the inscription."
I set my glass down and picked up the watch. I popped the clasp open.
Inside, engraved into the gold casing, were the words: For Marco. The debt is paid. - B.M.
B.M.
Benjamin.
My stomach plummeted. "Ben gave him this watch? He paid for the hit squad?"
"He didn't pay for the hit squad," Dante corrected grimly. "He paid Marco Vance the first installment of the warehouse sale using his forged documents. He proved his loyalty to the syndicate. Vance sent the hit squad to eliminate the only loose ends that could expose the forgery."
"Me," I whispered. "And Claire. If we're dead, nobody can contest the forged deed. The sale goes through."
My own son had bought a gold watch to celebrate my assassination.
Tears finally spilled over my cheeks, hot and bitter. I wiped them away angrily.
"Give me the phone, Dante," I said, my voice turning to steel. "I know exactly what to do."
Dante hesitated for a fraction of a second, then handed me his encrypted cell phone. He dialed a number he clearly had memorized, put it on speaker, and set it on the desk.
It rang twice.
"Speak," a gravelly, cold voice answered.
"Marco Vance," Dante said smoothly. "You sent some of your trash to my restaurant tonight. I left them in the alley for the garbage men."
A low chuckle came through the speaker. "Dante. I apologize for the mess. It was nothing personal against you. Just cleaning up some bad accounting."
"The accounting is sitting right next to me," Dante said. "And she'd like a word."
He nodded at me.
I leaned toward the phone. "Mr. Vance. My name is Helen. Benjamin's mother."
Silence on the other end. Then, "I was told you had a sudden heart attack this evening, Helen. A tragic loss."
"My heart is perfectly fine," I said, gripping the edge of the desk. "But the deed my son gave you is not. It’s a forgery. If you try to push that sale through, I will take the original deed straight to the FBI, and your casino deal will be tied up in federal court for the next decade."
A heavy pause. The amusement vanished from Vance's voice. "What do you want, waitress?"
"I want my family left alone," I demanded. "You call off your men. You walk away from the Elm Street property. In exchange, I will sign the warehouse over to you cleanly. Legally. You get your casino, and we get our lives."
"And Benjamin?" Vance asked coldly. "He lied to me. He embarrassed my organization."
I looked at Dante. Dante looked back at me, his eyes solemn, waiting for my decision.
May you like
I thought of Toby's broken wooden train. I thought of Claire's exhausted, violet-shadowed eyes. I thought of the nine hundred dollars a month that I had bled for, while my son plotted my murder.
"Benjamin is no longer my son," I said into the phone. "What you do with him is your business."
