Chapter 7 - The Last Meal at Ironvale
Friday morning was cold.
Walter stood near the release gate carrying a cardboard box.
Two books.
An old watch.
A photograph.
His cane.
Bellandi waited behind the inner fence.
Walter looked at him.
“You look terrible.”
Bellandi smiled.
“You did that.”
“Your face was already a problem.”
Bellandi laughed.
Then his expression softened.
“They removed the table.”
Walter frowned.
“What table?”
“My table.”
“Why?”
“Apparently it became a security issue.”
Walter shook his head.
Bellandi continued.
“You know what inmates called it?”
“No.”
“Mercer’s Table.”
Walter groaned.
“That’s stupid.”
“There was a rule.”
“What rule?”
Bellandi grinned.
“If an old man wants your seat, give him the seat.”
Walter laughed.
The outer gate buzzed.
Rachel Mercer stood beyond it.
Walter stopped.
She ran toward him.
He dropped the box and hugged her.
“You’re thinner,” she said.
“Compliment?”
“No.”
“I’ll take it.”
She pulled back.
“I heard you fought Bellandi.”
“He fought me.”
“You put him through a table.”
“He was rude.”
Rachel stared.
Walter smiled.
She shook her head.
“You’re impossible.”
Walter looked back toward the fence.
Bellandi still stood there.
Walter raised one hand.
Bellandi did the same.
Six months later, Victor Sorrento was convicted on racketeering, conspiracy, witness intimidation, and multiple murder-related charges.
Several corrupt officials went down with him.
Walter’s record was cleared.
Rachel became one of the lead prosecutors in the largest organized-crime corruption case the region had seen in years.
And Marco Bellandi made a choice nobody expected.
He cooperated.
Not for freedom.
Not for a reduced sentence.
For his father.
He dismantled what remained of his prison organization.
He handed over records.
Names.
Financial accounts.
And information that helped authorities solve cases long considered dead.
Two years later, Walter received a letter.
He opened it at his kitchen table.
Mercer,
They finally replaced that ugly dining table.
Good.
I hated looking at it.
I started teaching some younger guys boxing in the recreation yard.
No fighting.
Just discipline.
My father would probably laugh.
I think he would have liked you.
I think he might finally like me again too.
—Marco
Walter read the letter twice.
Rachel entered the kitchen.
“Dinner.”
Walter folded the paper.
“What are we having?”
“Meatloaf.”
Walter stopped.
Rachel looked at him.
“What?”
Walter started laughing.
She stared.
“Dad?”
“Nothing.”
He grabbed his cane and followed her.
On the wall behind him hung an old pair of boxing gloves.
Walter Mercer had once believed strength meant hitting harder than the man standing in front of you.
Ironvale had taught him something else.
Sometimes strength was knowing when not to strike.
Sometimes it was telling the truth after twenty-three years.
And sometimes the most dangerous man in the room wasn’t the giant everyone feared.
May you like
It was the quiet old man sitting in the wrong chair.
The one nobody realized had already survived far worse men than them.
