Chapter 6 - The Harbor King Returns
Five months later, more than three hundred people gathered inside the ballroom.
Dante hated parties.
Eli loved them.
That explained everything.
It was Maya's birthday.
She hadn't told anyone.
Eli had.
Which meant Dante had somehow ended up hosting a celebration involving balloons, musicians, food stations, and approximately forty children running through a mansion previously famous for intimidating politicians.
Noah stood beside the piano.
Maya approached Dante.
“You didn't have to do this.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
Dante looked toward Eli.
The boy was attempting to teach Victor a dance.
Victor looked miserable.
Dante smiled.
“Because your son destroyed seven years of peace.”
Maya laughed.
“He has that effect.”
Dante wasn't using the wheelchair.
Not tonight.
Two black walking sticks rested beneath his hands.
His progress remained slow.
Some days were terrible.
Some mornings his legs barely responded.
Serena had warned him recovery might plateau permanently.
Dante had accepted that.
Walking perfectly no longer mattered.
Trying did.
Eli suddenly noticed him.
“Hey!”
Dante immediately became suspicious.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“No.”
“You don't know what I'm asking.”
“I know you.”
Eli ran toward him.
Music began.
The same ridiculous stadium song.
Dante stared at him.
“You kept that?”
“Obviously.”
Eli began dancing.
Exactly as badly as he had the first afternoon.
People laughed.
Dante shook his head.
Then Eli extended one hand.
“Come on.”
“I don't dance.”
“You don't dance yet.”
Dante looked at the boy.
That word.
Yet.
Seven years earlier, doctors had removed that word from his vocabulary.
Eli had put it back.
Dante handed one walking stick to Victor.
Then the other.
Maya's smile disappeared.
“Dante?”
“Relax.”
He took one step.
Unsteady.
Another.
The ballroom became silent.
A third.
Eli backed away, grinning.
Dante followed.
Four steps.
Five.
Six.
Then his knee weakened.
Eli grabbed his hand.
A nine-year-old boy couldn't possibly hold up a man Dante's size.
But somehow Dante stayed upright.
He laughed.
The entire ballroom erupted.
Dante looked around the room his sister had once loved.
For years, he had treated it like a mausoleum.
Now children were running across its marble.
Music filled the ceiling.
Maya was crying.
Noah was cheering.
Victor was pretending he wasn't emotional.
And Eli was still holding Dante's hand.
“See?” the boy said.
Dante looked down at him.
“See what?”
“You were never a statue.”
Dante smiled.
“No.”
Then he looked toward the wheelchair waiting near the windows.
For the first time in eight years, he didn't see a prison.
He saw something that had carried him until he was ready to move forward.
Dante squeezed Eli's hand.
“One more?”
Eli grinned.
“One hundred more.”
Dante laughed.
“Let's start with seven.”
Together, they crossed the ballroom.
One slow step at a time.
May you like
And that night, the most feared man on Baltimore's waterfront discovered that becoming powerful again had nothing to do with standing over other men.
Sometimes it meant allowing a child with muddy sneakers, a red ball, and absolutely no respect for locked doors to teach you how to stand beside them.
