Chapter 10 - PLEASE, AGAIN
One year after Arthur Costello knocked on my basement door at three in the morning, I woke at 2:58.
Not because of a car.
Because memory has a clock.
My apartment was quiet.
Radiator clicking.
Streetlight across ceiling.
No boiler.
No security corridor.
I lay in bed and did arithmetic.
Old habit.
Rent.
Hospital payment.
Credit card.
Savings.
The numbers still did not become magical.
But they changed.
Hospital balance:
less than three thousand.
Card:
still ugly.
No longer growing.
Savings:
enough for two months if everything went wrong.
That number mattered most.
Not wealth.
Options.
At 3:07, my phone stayed dark.
Good.
Arthur knew better.
I fell asleep again.
At seven that evening, someone knocked.
Three times.
Normal.
I looked through peephole.
Arthur.
Dark coat.
No blood.
No torn sleeve.
Holding a paper grocery bag.
I smiled before opening.
Then stopped.
Chain first.
Habit.
I opened two inches.
He looked at chain.
Then me.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“What’s in bag?”
“Soup.”
“Why?”
“You said you worked twelve hours.”
“I did.”
“Do you want soup?”
There.
Good.
“What kind?”
“Chicken.”
“From where?”
“Restaurant on Damen.”
“Did you buy it?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone threaten restaurant?”
His mouth moved.
“No.”
“Then maybe.”
He smiled.
“May I come in?”
I looked at him.
One year.
The same shape:
man outside.
door partly open.
my hand on chain.
Everything else different.
He did not say:
Open.
He waited.
I took chain off.
“Please.”
The word came from me this time.
Arthur stepped inside.
Good.
We ate soup at kitchen table.
No anniversary speech.
Not at first.
I told him a housekeeper at hotel had accidentally vacuumed up a guest’s diamond earring and entire team had spent forty minutes searching dust bags.
He told me Rizzo had finally learned shared calendars and hated every minute.
Normal.
Then Arthur put spoon down.
“I have something to tell you.”
My body tightened.
He saw.
“Not emergency.”
Good.
“What?”
“Federal tax review of old shadow payroll is closing.”
I waited.
“Company will pay penalties and back taxes.”
“Criminal charges?”
“Not against me from that piece, according to counsel.”
Not immunity from life.
Just that piece.
“Elaine?”
“Civil penalties related to false payroll administration. No current theft charges.”
“Seth?”
“Plea.”
There.
Seth Warren had pleaded guilty to fraud, identity theft, and tax offenses, plus cooperation on diverted funds.
Nolan pleaded guilty to fraud-related conspiracy and intimidation count tied to text threat.
No giant sentences recited.
Courts handled.
Salvatore’s estate forfeited his improperly acquired interests in two of three Bridgeport properties after litigation.
The third had mixed legitimate funds and remained contested.
Messy.
Good.
“Mrs. Bell?”
“Retiring in spring.”
My chest tightened.
“She told me.”
“Of course.”
Good.
Arthur continued:
“I sold the three buildings connected to old side fund.”
“Why?”
“I did not want them inside legitimate portfolio.”
“Who bought?”
“Open-market sale through independent broker.”
Good.
“Money?”
“After taxes, restitution reserves, and litigation, remaining proceeds held pending counsel review.”
Better.
No cleansing by donating theatrically.
Then:
“I’m stepping back from two criminal businesses.”
I looked.
“Which?”
“Collections and protection.”
There.
My heart moved.
“Completely?”
“From operations I control.”
Good qualifier.
“Why?”
“I cannot make them comply with rules I now believe those businesses are built to violate.”
There.
That was more honest than reform memo.
“What about gambling?”
“Still.”
“What about other things?”
“Still.”
Good.
“You’re not clean.”
“No.”
“I need you to keep saying that.”
His face tightened.
“I will.”
Good.
We sat.
Then Arthur said:
“I bought no house.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You said not yet.”
“Yes.”
“I looked anyway.”
Of course.
“But I did not buy.”
“Congratulations on not purchasing property against my wishes.”
“Standards are brutal.”
Good.
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I want to ask again.”
“Live together?”
“Yes.”
I took time.
One year ago:
eleven-by-nine room.
No savings.
Job tied to bed.
Powerful man bleeding on floor.
Now:
my apartment.
my job.
my lawyer still on contact list though we had not spoken in months.
my bills.
my savings.
my choice.
“Not the estate.”
“No.”
“Not a building you own.”
“No.”
“Rent first.”
Arthur blinked.
“You want to rent.”
“Yes.”
He looked physically pained.
Good.
“Why?”
“Because I want to know we can leave a place together without needing to sell a piece of your empire.”
He stared.
Then laughed softly.
“That is extremely specific.”
“Yes.”
“Separate names on lease?”
“Both.”
“Split rent?”
“Proportional.”
He opened mouth.
I lifted finger.
“Do not say you can pay all.”
He closed.
Good.
“Proportional.”
“Yes.”
“My security?”
“Outside only when specific threat. No cameras inside beyond what we both agree.”
“Yes.”
“Staff?”
“No live-in.”
Pain.
“Housekeeper?”
“We clean.”
He looked horrified.
I laughed.
“Maybe weekly cleaner. Paid properly.”
“Thank God.”
Good.
I looked at him.
“Six-month lease.”
“Most are twelve.”
“Then twelve with break clause.”
“You planned.”
“I do arithmetic.”
His face softened.
“I know.”
There.
“Okay.”
I stared.
“That’s all?”
“You expected negotiation?”
“Yes.”
“I want to live with you more than I want to win the housing terms.”
There.
Good.
“Then yes.”
Arthur went completely still.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He closed eyes.
Same way he had when I said I loved him.
Then:
“Can I kiss you?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He did.
No urgency.
One hand at waist.
One at back of chair.
Afterward, he rested forehead against mine.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
He pulled back.
“That is terrible.”
“I love you too.”
Better.
Good.
We found an apartment three weeks later.
Not Costello property.
I checked through public records and made landlord certify beneficial ownership because I had become insufferable.
Arthur was delighted by this.
Two bedrooms.
One for us.
One office/guest room.
No basement.
Third floor.
Fire escape.
Smoke alarms.
Two exits.
I checked.
Of course.
Rent split based on income in a way that still made Arthur pay most because pretending our finances were equal would be theater.
But my name sat on lease with his.
Equal right to leave.
That mattered.
I kept my own bank account.
He kept several thousand accounts probably.
I did not ask.
We had one joint household account with fixed monthly contributions.
Boring.
Perfect.
Mrs. Bell visited before move.
She inspected kitchen.
Approved.
Then saw Arthur assembling a bookshelf.
Badly.
“Sir.”
He looked.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
He handed her screwdriver immediately.
I laughed.
Good.
Three months later, I became executive housekeeping manager at Lake Shore Grand? Too fast. Maybe supervisor still. Keep grounded.
I remained housekeeping supervisor.
Applied for operations training program.
No guarantee.
Arthur remained Arthur.
Some nights calls came late.
Some names he would not explain.
Some things in his life still made me uncomfortable.
I did not solve them.
He did not ask me to.
When I said:
“I don’t want this in our home,”
he listened.
No weapons left on tables.
No meetings in living room.
No men showing up unannounced.
Our home did not become neutral because danger disappeared.
It became ours because danger had rules at door.
On anniversary of first night, not exact year but following winter, freezing rain came again.
Chicago turned to glass.
At 2:58 a.m., I was awake.
Arthur was beside me.
Not on floor.
Not because he had nowhere else to go.
Because we had chosen same bed.
He woke when I moved.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He looked at clock.
Remembered.
Of course.
His face changed.
“Do you regret opening door?”
I thought.
This question had lived in me for a year.
If I had kept chain on:
No anonymous text?
Maybe.
No surveillance discovery?
Eventually perhaps.
No Arthur in my life?
Likely.
But Salvatore’s system still existed.
Ghost workers still paid.
Arthur still lived inside house he no longer trusted.
None of that made me responsible for saving him.
Important.
“No.”
I said.
Arthur exhaled.
Then I added:
“That doesn’t mean opening it was wise.”
He laughed quietly.
“Fair.”
“You stole it again.”
“Sorry.”
Rain tapped window.
I looked at him.
“The word.”
“What word?”
“Please.”
His face softened.
“Nobody heard you say it?”
“People heard.”
“Not like that.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He took time.
“Because I thought needing something gave other people power over me.”
There.
“And now?”
“I know taking away their choice gives fear power over everyone.”
That was annoyingly good.
“Did Miriam write that?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
He smiled.
Then:
“Norah.”
“Yes?”
“Please stay.”
The words were quiet.
Not a demand for forever.
Not a contract.
Not debt.
I looked at our door across hall.
No chain from here.
Still locked.
I looked back.
“I’m here.”
Good.
Then:
“And if I leave one day?”
His face tightened.
He answered anyway.
“I open the door.”
There.
That was the only promise I wanted.
Not that nothing bad would happen.
Not that Arthur Costello had become harmless.
Not that love had erased blood already spilled.
Only that a door remained a door.
Something that could open from either side.
A boundary.
An exit.
An invitation.
At three in the morning, one year after the most feared man in Chicago had begged outside my basement room, Arthur Costello lay beside me and did not ask me to save him.
May you like
He only asked me to stay.
And because I knew I was free to leave, I did.
