Chapter 8 - The Weight of Mercy
The red laser dots vanished from the street as Paul Castellano and his humiliated enforcers scrambled back into their sedans, tires screeching against the wet asphalt as they peeled out toward the Brooklyn bridge.
The street grew quiet again, save for the steady patter of autumn rain hitting the puddles.
Bruno trotted back from the retreating cars, his tail giving a single, satisfied wag as he trotted up to my side, shaking the water from his thick fur like a wet bear.
I lowered my shotgun and clicked the safety back into place.
Mateo Vasquez stood in the doorway of his bakery, staring out at the empty street with wide, disbelieving eyes. He looked down at the broken glass near his front door, then across at me standing in the rain.
I walked over to the steps, leaning the shotgun against the brick wall before pulling a clean white handkerchief from my pocket to wipe the rain from my face.
"Are you alright, Mateo?" I asked.
Mateo slowly nodded, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the doorframe. "They... they were going to burn it down, Victor. Everything I had left of her... gone."
"They're not coming back," I said, my voice firm and reassuring. "Not to this block. Not while I'm breathing."
Mateo stepped out onto the wet sidewalk, ignoring the rain, and before I could stop him, the middle-aged baker reached out and pulled me into a fierce, desperate embrace.
It was an awkward hug—he was shorter than me, and his shoulders were stiff with years of hard labor and grief—but it was real. For a man who had spent thirty years surrounded by enemies, betrayals, and cold steel, holding a grieving father felt like touching something sacred.
"Thank you," Mateo whispered into my wet coat. "Thank you for protecting her memory."
"I told you," I murmured, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Your debt was paid the moment we met."
We pulled apart, and Mateo looked down at Bruno, who was sitting patiently on the concrete, giving a polite, single bark as if demanding his reward for a job well done.
Mateo let out a wet, genuine laugh—the first real laugh I had heard in weeks.
"Hold on," Mateo said, turning back toward the bakery kitchen. "Don't move."
Two minutes later, he returned through the glass door holding a small white bakery box tied with a purple ribbon. He handed it directly to me.
"What's this?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Fresh chocolate cupcakes," Mateo smiled softly, his eyes shining in the dim light of the streetlamp. "With purple sugar flowers. For you... and for your bodyguard."
May you like
I looked down at the box, then back at Bruno, whose tongue was lolling out of his mouth in eager anticipation.
"Come on, boy," I said, picking up my shotgun and turning toward the waiting SUV. "Let's go home."
