Chapter 3 - Swallowing My Pride
The neighborhood was a stark contrast to my sprawling estate in Long Island. The streets were narrow, lined with cramped apartment buildings and flickering streetlights. My black SUV looked like an alien spaceship parked on the cracked pavement. Victor offered to come with me, but I waved him off. This was something I had to do alone. I found her building. Apartment 4B. The hallway smelled of stale cabbage and old cleaning supplies. I knocked on the peeling wooden door, feeling a strange knot in my stomach. I, Julian Mercer, the man who made grown men tremble with a single look, was nervous. The door opened a crack. The chain was still on. Marisol looked through the narrow gap. She was wearing oversized sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun. She didn't look surprised. She just looked tired. "Mr. Mercer," she said, her voice flat. "It's late." "I need you to come back," I said. I didn't beat around the bush. I didn't offer pleasantries. I didn't know how. She let out a short, humorless laugh. "No." She tried to close the door, but I put my hand against the wood, stopping it. "Please," I said. The word felt like sandpaper in my throat. Marisol paused. She looked at my hand, then up at my eyes. "You fired me," she said softly. "You looked at me like I was garbage. Like I was trying to harm your children." "I was wrong," I admitted, the confession burning my tongue. "I was a fool. I didn't understand what was happening. They told me why they were in my bed. They told me about the monsters." Marisol’s expression softened slightly. "They heard your men," she said. "They think the mafia killed their mother. They think you're going to be next. They were sleeping in your bed because they wanted to spend what little time they thought they had left with you." Hearing it from her mouth felt like a knife to the chest. "I read your file," I said quietly. "I know about your sister. I know why you understand them." Marisol's eyes flashed with anger. "You investigated me?" "I investigate everyone," I replied honestly. "But I should have trusted you. They are falling apart without you, Marisol. I am falling apart." She unlatched the chain and opened the door fully. She crossed her arms, looking up at me. "If I come back," she said, her voice turning hard, "things change. I don't work for your ego. I work for those boys." "Whatever you want," I said quickly. "Double my salary," she demanded. "Done." "And you," she poked a finger hard into my chest, a move that would have gotten anyone else killed. "You have to be a father. No more hiding in your office. No more working until midnight. You eat dinner with them. You read them stories. You show them you aren't a ghost." I looked at her finger pressing into my expensive suit. I looked at the fierce determination in her brown eyes. She wasn't afraid of the mafia boss. She was fighting for three little boys. "I don't know how to do that anymore," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "Then I will teach you," Marisol said. "But you have to try. Deal?" "Deal," I said.
