Chapter 7
The days that followed were a strange, suspended reality.
Dora stayed in the penthouse. Not because she was a prisoner—Victor made it clear she could leave anytime—but because she had nowhere else to go. South Boston wasn’t safe. The bounty might have been cancelled, but the rumors lingered, and her old neighborhood was full of people who would sell her location for a twenty-dollar bill.
So she stayed.
She cooked. She discovered that Victor’s kitchen, despite its pristine appearance, had never been used for anything more complicated than boiling water. She made pasta from scratch, roasted vegetables, baked bread. The simple act of creating something nourishing felt like a small rebellion against the chaos of his world.
Victor watched her. He sat at the kitchen island with a glass of whiskey and watched her move around his kitchen, and something in his eyes shifted from cold assessment to quiet wonder.
“You don’t have to keep staring at me,” she said one evening, without turning around.
“I’m not staring. I’m appreciating.”
“Same thing.”
“No.” His voice was low. “Staring is empty. Appreciating means I see you.”
Dora’s hands stilled on the vegetables she was chopping. She didn’t know how to respond to that. So she didn’t.
Leo came by every few days with updates. The Moretti situation was contained. The remaining loyalists had been absorbed or eliminated. The streets were quiet.
“He’s different,” Leo said to Dora one afternoon when Victor was in a meeting. “The boss. He’s been different since that night at the Aster.”
“Different how?”
Leo shrugged his massive shoulders. “Calmer. Less like he’s looking for a reason to put a bullet in someone.” He paused. “You’re good for him.”
Dora didn’t know what to say to that either.
Three weeks after the gala, Victor took her to see the diner.
The building was still standing, but the interior had been gutted. Construction workers were busy transforming the space into something new.
“What is this?” Dora asked, standing on the sidewalk, staring at the renovation.
“Your restaurant.”
She turned to look at him. “I told you I didn’t want—”
“You said you didn’t want to be a kept charity case.” Victor cut her off, his hands in his pockets. “This isn’t charity. This is an investment. You’re the partner. You run it however you want. The profits are yours. The losses are mine.”
Dora stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“Why?”
Victor was quiet for a moment. “Because you deserve something that’s yours. Not mine. Not a gift. Something you built.”
Dora looked at the construction site. At the skeleton of a restaurant that could be hers. A place she could run. A future she could shape.
“Why do you care so much?” she asked, her voice small.
May you like
Victor turned to face her fully. The cold mask was gone. In its place was something raw and vulnerable.
“Because you’re the first person in fifteen years who looked at me and didn’t see a monster.”
