Chapter 9 - The Kingpin Steps Over the Broken Glass
Gus stood up from the head of the marble table.
He didn't look at the scattered cash on the floor. He didn't look at the abandoned merger contracts.
He walked slowly down the length of the room, stepping over the shattered crystal and spilled scotch, stopping directly in front of Dela.
Dela let out a long, ragged breath.
The adrenaline that had sustained her for seven long months—the fury, the grief, the absolute discipline required to survive inside the lion’s den—suddenly began to ebb away, leaving behind a crushing wave of physical exhaustion.
Her knees buckled.
Before her hands could reach out to steady herself, Gus caught her.
His large, strong hands gripped her elbows, lifting her effortlessly, taking all her weight before her feet could give out.
“I have you,” Gus said softly.
His voice wasn't the cold, commanding tone he used with board members and mob lieutenants. It was gentle. Steady. Unyielding.
“I’m fine,” Dela whispered, though her breath came in shallow gasps. “Just... tired.”
“You’ve been on your feet for seven years, Delilah,” Gus said, his gray eyes looking down into hers with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. “You’re allowed to sit down.”
He guided her carefully to the plush leather armchair at the head of the table—the seat Arthur Sinclair had occupied only ten minutes earlier—and helped her sit.
He reached down, picked up the clean linen napkin, and gently brushed a speck of spilled champagne from her sleeve.
Teddy Brightwater pushed through the pantry doors, carrying a hot ceramic mug of herbal tea and a thick wool blanket.
Teddy wrapped the blanket around Dela’s shoulders and pressed the mug into her hands.
“You did good, kid,” Teddy said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Elias is resting easy tonight.”
Dela took a sip of the warm tea, the hot liquid chasing away the bone-deep chill that had lived inside her chest since the night on Interstate 90.
“Mr. Vandermir,” Dela said, looking up over the rim of the mug.
“Augustine,” he corrected quietly.
“Augustine,” she repeated. “What happens now?”
Gus reached into his breast pocket.
He didn't pull out cash. He didn't pull out a legal contract.
He pulled out a small, velvet jeweler’s box.
He set it on the marble table in front of her and flipped it open.
Inside rested the blue lacquered fountain pen she had left in her West Side apartment.
Next to it lay a signed deed of ownership for the entire top three floors of the Gold Coast residential tower overlooking the harbor—registered solely in the name of Delilah Hawthorne and Child.
“What is this?” Dela asked, her voice trembling.
“That is your retainer,” Gus said.
“I haven't agreed to represent you.”
“You’re not representing me as an attorney, Delilah,” Gus said, leaning against the edge of the marble table, his eyes locked onto hers. “I’m dissolving the maritime syndicate’s underground operations. Every dirty terminal. Every corrupt shipping lane. It’s all being converted into legitimate public trust holdings.”
May you like
He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at her.
“I need someone who knows the law,” Gus murmured. “And I need someone who isn't afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.”
