Chapter 18 - The Shadow of the Past
Spring came late to Chicago that year, but when April arrived, it broke through the gray winter with sudden, violent beauty. The cherry blossoms along the lakefront burst into pale pink blooms, and the scent of damp earth and fresh grass drifted through Lincoln Park.
On a Saturday afternoon, Roman was in the backyard, wrestling with a set of cedar garden planter boxes Evelyn had ordered. He had sawdust in his hair, a smudge of dirt across his cheekbone, and was holding a power drill with an expression of intense, lethal concentration.
Gabriel sat on the outdoor patio sofa, wearing sunglasses, nursing a glass of lemonade, and offering completely unhelpful commentary.
"You're stripping the screw, Roman," Gabriel observed lazily. "A man who used to run a four-hundred-million-dollar maritime syndicate shouldn't be defeated by flat-pack Scandinavian furniture."
"Gabriel," Roman said, not looking up from the wood, "if you don't remove yourself from that sofa in three seconds, I am going to use this drill to mount you to the brick wall."
"Threatening senior citizens," Gabriel sighed, turning to Evelyn, who was pruning rose bushes nearby. "See what you married, Evie? The beast remains untamed."
"The beast is building my tomato garden," Evelyn said, tossing a pruned twig at her uncle. "Leave him alone. At least he's useful."
Roman looked up, flashing a triumphant grin. "Hear that? I'm useful."
"Barely," Evelyn added with a wink.
The peace of the afternoon was shattered by the sharp chime of the front gate intercom. Roman’s posture shifted instantly; the casual homebuilder vanished, replaced by the coiled readiness that was simply part of his biology. He set the drill down, wiping his hands on a rag, and stepped toward the side gate before Evelyn could move.
"Stay here," Roman said instinctively.
Evelyn crossed her arms and raised a single eyebrow.
Roman caught himself, pausing mid-stride. He let out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. "My apologies. Would you care to accompany me to the gate to see who is ringing our bell, my equal and terrifying partner?"
"Much better," Evelyn said, walking past him with a smirk.
Gabriel followed closely, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket—a habit none of them would ever truly break.
At the wrought-iron gate stood a young man, barely twenty-one years old, wearing a cheap, ill-fitting dark suit. He had dark, curly hair, hollow cheeks, and eyes that held the terrified defiance of a street kid out of his depth.
Roman stopped three paces from the gate. His expression went completely blank.
"Dante," Roman said. The name fell from his lips like a stone dropped into a deep well.
Evelyn looked between them. "Roman? Who is this?"
"Dante Bellini," Roman replied softly, never taking his eyes off the boy. "His father, Marco Bellini, was my head of logistics at the Calumet River yards."
"Was?" Evelyn asked, sensing the cold current beneath the words.
"Marco was killed during the warehouse firefight four years ago," Dante spat through the iron bars, his voice cracking with bitter, teenage fury. "The night your precious federal investigation kicked down the doors. You walked away, Castellano. You gave away your money, you married your pretty wife, you play house in Lincoln Park. And my mother has been cleaning hotel rooms in Cicero to pay my father’s funeral debts."
The silence in the garden was absolute. The wind stirred the new leaves on the maple tree, a soft rustle against the brick.
Gabriel stepped forward, his face hardening, but Roman raised a hand, stopping him.
Roman walked up to the gate, looking through the black iron bars directly into Dante’s bloodshot eyes. He didn't flinch. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't summon security.
"Your father was a loyal man, Dante," Roman said quietly. "He warned me three times that Vale was corrupting the shipping lines. I didn't listen to him because I was arrogant, and I thought I had everything under control. His death was my failure."
Dante blinked, clearly unprepared for the confession. He had come expecting a mob boss who would threaten him, or a haughty billionaire who would have him arrested for trespassing. He had not expected the man who ruled Chicago to accept the blame without a shield.
"I don't want your apologies," Dante choked out, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't want your charity."
"Good," Roman said. He reached into his pocket, took out the key to the pedestrian gate, unlocked it, and pushed it open.
Gabriel gasped softly. "Roman..."
Roman stepped outside onto the public sidewalk, standing unarmed, unprotected, inches from the furious boy.
"I set up a trust for your mother four years ago, Dante," Roman said, his voice calm, steady, and utterly honest. "Two million dollars, administered through a blind legal proxy in Delaware so the federal asset seizures wouldn't touch it. Your mother never claimed it because Marco told her never to take blood money from a Castellano."
Dante stared at him, his mouth slightly open.
"She was right," Roman continued. "It was blood money. But that money wasn't stolen from the city. It came from my mother’s private inheritance. It is clean. And it belongs to Marco’s family."
Roman reached into his jacket. Dante flinched, taking half a step back. But Roman only drew out a small business card with an attorney’s name and a private phone number. He held it out.
"Take it to Arthur Vance on LaSalle Street. Tell him you are Marco Bellini’s son. He will release the trust. It will pay off the debts, it will buy your mother a home, and it will pay for whatever school or trade you want to pursue."
Dante looked down at the card, his chest heaving with conflicting emotions—rage, pride, grief, and the sudden, overwhelming weight of an offered lifeline.
"And what do you get?" Dante whispered, his voice trembling. "What does Roman Castellano get out of this?"
Roman looked back over his shoulder toward the garden. His eyes met Evelyn’s.
"Nothing," Roman said softly. "I already have everything I am allowed to have in this life. Take the card, Dante. Don't let your father's ghost ruin your future the way mine ruined my youth."
Dante’s fingers reached out, snatching the card from Roman’s hand. He stared at Roman for three long, agonizing seconds, then turned on his heel and sprinted down the sunlit sidewalk, disappearing around the corner of Fullerton Avenue.
Roman stood on the pavement for a moment, his head bowed, the spring breeze ruffling his hair.
Evelyn walked out of the gate, stopping beside him. She slipped her arm through his, resting her head against his shoulder.
"You never told me about the Bellini trust," she murmured.
"I didn't do it to impress you," Roman replied, looking down at his shoes. "I did it because Marco had three kids, and he died because I was too stupid to see Vale’s game."
"Roman," she said, pulling him gently back inside the gate and clicking the latch shut. "You're a good man. You have to start believing it."
May you like
Roman wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, burying his nose in her hair. "I believe it when I'm with you. The rest of the time, I'm just working on it."
"Then keep working," she smiled, tapping his chest. "Those tomato boxes aren't going to build themselves."
