Chapter 9 - The Year Without Roman Mercer
Eleven months later, Mara owned the ballroom.
Not literally.
Yet.
But she walked through it as though she did.
The same chandeliers hung overhead.
The same marble floors reflected evening light.
The same orchestra platform stood against the far wall.
Peter Larkin was gone.
The hotel corporation had fired half its management after investigators uncovered years of corruption.
Mara had testified.
Noah had testified.
Roman had testified too.
That surprised everyone.
Roman Mercer gave federal prosecutors information that dismantled what remained of both the Vale network and several criminal operations connected to his own organization.
In exchange, prosecutors acknowledged his cooperation.
It did not erase his past.
Roman refused to pretend it did.
He pleaded guilty to financial and conspiracy charges.
Most of the violent crimes newspapers had attributed to him could never be proven because many had never been his.
Others belonged to men Roman had once protected through silence.
He stopped protecting them.
That cost him his empire.
Mara believed it saved something more important.
His future.
She visited him every Thursday.
At first Roman hated it.
“You don’t belong here.”
Mara sat across the visitation table.
“Neither do you.”
“Technically, the government disagrees.”
She smiled.
He did too.
Their relationship developed in the least romantic environment imaginable.
No champagne.
No chandeliers.
No tuxedos.
Just honesty.
Roman told her everything.
The businesses.
The compromises.
The fear he had mistaken for power.
Mara told him about her anger.
Her loneliness.
Her fear that loving him meant excusing him.
“It doesn’t,” Roman said.
That mattered.
He never asked her to forgive what he had done.
He simply tried to become someone worthy of what came afterward.
Meanwhile Mara transformed too.
The federal reward attached to Noah’s evidence provided enough money to change both siblings’ lives.
Noah founded a cybersecurity company specializing in exposing financial corruption.
Mara did something everyone found surprising.
She stayed in hospitality.
But not as a waitress.
She partnered with several former employees and bought a struggling event company.
Within nine months, Bennett Events had become one of Chicago’s most requested boutique firms.
Mara understood invisible workers because she had been one.
Her servers received health insurance.
Predictable schedules.
Paid sick leave.
And managers were forbidden from using the phrase “the customer is always right” as justification for abuse.
Noah called it Mara’s benevolent dictatorship.
She called it Tuesday.
Then Roman’s sentence was reduced.
His cooperation had prevented several murders and exposed extensive corruption.
He would be released after fourteen months.
Mara received the call on a Wednesday.
She did not visit Thursday.
Roman noticed.
Friday passed.
Then Saturday.
Roman wondered if she had changed her mind.
He would later admit those seventy-two hours terrified him more than prison.
Monday morning, the gates opened.
Roman Mercer walked outside carrying one small bag.
No security convoy waited.
No armored sedan.
No employees.
Nothing remained of the life he had once ruled.
A battered blue Honda waited across the street.
Mara leaned against it.
Roman stopped.
She smiled.
“You look disappointed.”
“I was expecting something less mechanically concerning.”
“Insult my car and I leave you here.”
He walked toward her.
She had imagined this moment for months.
She expected dramatic words.
Roman simply touched her face.
“Hi.”
Her eyes filled.
“Hi.”
Then she kissed him.
No fear.
No countdown.
No sniper.
Just morning sunlight and traffic moving along the highway.
When they separated, Roman looked at the Honda.
“Seriously?”
“Get in.”
“I used to own twelve cars.”
“You now own one duffel bag.”
“That was unnecessarily specific.”
She laughed.
Roman got in.
Their first stop was not a mansion.
Mara took him to a small brick building in Lincoln Park.
A sign hung above the entrance.
BENNETT HOUSE
Roman frowned.
“What is this?”
“Come inside.”
The ground floor was a restaurant and event space.
Warm wood.
Soft lights.
A small dance floor.
Roman stared.
“You bought this?”
“Leased with an option.”
He looked impressed.
Mara enjoyed that.
Noah emerged from the kitchen.
Roman’s expression immediately changed.
“No.”
Noah smiled.
“Welcome home, convict.”
“I preferred prison.”
“You’ll change your mind. We have pancakes.”
Behind Noah came several familiar faces.
Former Mercer employees.
Luis Ortega’s widow and children.
Hospital staff who had cared for Eleanor Bennett.
People Roman had helped quietly over the years.
Not soldiers.
Not criminals.
People.
Roman stopped.
Mara watched emotion move across his face.
“You did this?”
“They wanted to be here.”
Luis’s young daughter ran toward Roman.
He crouched.
She hugged him.
Roman closed his eyes.
Mara looked away to give him privacy.
Later, when everyone had gone, Roman found Mara standing on the empty dance floor.
Music played quietly from a speaker.
He approached.
Held out his hand.
Mara looked at it.
A memory passed between them.
“Dance with me.”
She smiled.
“I’m still working.”
Roman laughed.
Then his expression softened.
“Please?”
Mara placed her hand in his.
“One condition.”
“Anything.”
“You never order me to dance again.”
“Deal.”
They moved slowly.
Roman counted.
“One, two, three.”
Mara rested her head against him.
After a while she whispered, “What happens now?”
Roman looked around the little restaurant.
“I find a job.”
She laughed against his chest.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“What exactly does a former mafia boss put on a résumé?”
“Management experience?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Conflict resolution?”
She laughed harder.
Roman kissed her forehead.
Then he became quiet.
“Mara.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“I don’t have the mansion anymore.”
“I hated that mansion.”
“No cars.”
“Your taste was obnoxious.”
“No organization.”
“Good.”
“No money that I’m willing to keep.”
“Even better.”
Roman studied her.
“I don’t know what I can offer you.”
Mara touched his cheek.
“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said.”
He frowned.
She smiled.
“I never wanted what you owned.”
“What did you want?”
“You.”
Roman’s breathing stopped.
“But only if you keep choosing to be this version of you.”
He nodded.
“Every day.”
Mara kissed him.
Neither noticed Noah standing in the doorway.
Until he spoke.
“I still hate this.”
Mara pulled away.
“Noah!”
Roman sighed.
“Do you have a home?”
“Yes.”
“Consider visiting it.”
Noah grinned.
Then his expression became serious.
“Actually, there’s someone outside.”
Roman instinctively moved in front of Mara.
She noticed.
So did Noah.
“Relax, Batman.”
“Who?”
Noah handed Mara an envelope.
No return address.
Her smile disappeared.
Inside was a photograph.
David Bennett.
Her father.
Standing beside a younger Roman.
On the back was handwriting Mara recognized immediately.
Her father’s.
If Roman ever finds his way out of the darkness, remind him that a man is more than the worst thing he has ever done.
Mara’s eyes filled.
Roman read it.
He sat down.
For a long time, he could not speak.
Then Mara noticed something else inside the envelope.
A second note.
Different handwriting.
Three words.
He was right.
Mara looked at Noah.
“Who sent this?”
Noah shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Roman stared at the handwriting.
He did.
Mara saw it immediately.
“Roman?”
His face had gone pale.
“Who wrote it?”
May you like
Roman looked toward the dark street outside.
“A man everyone believes is dead.”
