Chapter 5 - The Price of Aaron’s Truth
Three weeks later, Victor Caruso was indicted.
So were Calvin Reed, Dwight Mullen, and fourteen others.
The newspapers called Aaron a whistleblower.
I hated that word.
It made him sound like a headline.
To me, he was still the man who burned pancakes every Sunday because he refused to lower the stove temperature.
But his evidence changed things.
Families came forward.
Workers testified.
Money was recovered.
And Raphael kept his promise.
The Aaron Mercer Foundation opened on the fifth floor of Sterling Harbor.
I refused the executive director position.
Twice.
Raphael asked a third time.
“You’re irritating.”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re a mafia boss.”
“Former.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Former?”
He nodded.
“I’m restructuring everything.”
“Into what?”
“Legal businesses.”
“All of it?”
“That’s generally what legal means.”
I smiled.
Then my expression became serious.
“Why?”
Raphael looked through the window toward Baltimore Harbor.
“Because Aaron died exposing what my family became.”
He turned back.
“If I pretend nothing happened, then Victor wins anyway.”
That was the first time I trusted him.
Not completely.
But enough.
I accepted the job.
Four months later, at 2:16 a.m., my water broke.
Naturally, I was inside Sterling Harbor Tower.
Raphael was reviewing foundation security when I grabbed his arm.
“Raff.”
He looked at my hand.
“What?”
“I think the baby is coming.”
He froze.
This man had faced criminals without blinking.
Now he looked terrified.
“Now?”
“No, next Thursday. Yes, now.”
He pulled out his phone.
“I’ll call—”
Another contraction hit.
I squeezed his hand.
Hard.
Raphael went pale.
“You’re breaking my fingers.”
“You survived being stabbed.”
“Shot.”
“What?”
“I was shot that night.”
I glared at him.
“You waited four months to correct me?”
“You were busy.”
“Raphael!”
“Right. Baby.”
He called the hospital.
Then Tomas.
Then somehow three SUVs appeared downstairs.
I stared at them.
“I’m having one baby, Raff. Not invading Canada.”
“Security.”
“For childbirth?”
“Victor still has allies.”
I pointed at him.
“If anybody brings a gun into my delivery room, I will personally kill you.”
“Understood.”
Eight hours later, my daughter was born.
Seven pounds.
Dark hair.
Aaron’s nose.
I named her Abigail Mercer.
Raphael stood awkwardly near the hospital door.
“Come closer.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Are you afraid of a baby?”
“No.”
Abigail made a tiny noise.
Raphael took one step backward.
I laughed.
“You are.”
“I deal better with adults.”
“Hold her.”
His eyes widened.
“Delia.”
“Hold. Her.”
I placed Abigail in his arms.
The most feared man I had ever met looked down at my daughter like someone had handed him the moon.
“She’s small.”
“That’s generally how babies start.”
Her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his tattooed fingers.
Raphael stopped breathing.
I watched his expression change.
Something hard inside him seemed to disappear.
“She has his nose,” he whispered.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
Raphael looked at Aaron’s daughter.
Then he said quietly:
“Your father saved a lot of people, Abigail.”
I looked toward the hospital window.
For the first time in seven months, thinking about Aaron did not feel like drowning.
May you like
It felt like remembering.
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