Chapter 20: The Toll

Declan's POV

By Saturday noon my captains had flown in from Boston, and I made them stand on the Calumet dock in the wind.

There were nine of them in dark overcoats, and my bald captain stood in front.

I had wanted them to see it first.

The warehouse, the rebuilt brick, the plaque by the loading door.

"Read it," I said.

He read it, slowly, with his lips moving.

In memory of the night watchman. Forty-one years of service.

"I burned this building," I said. "I gave the order eight years ago, and a man died inside."

Nobody moved.

They had known I'd lit it, but none of them had known about the man.

"I told myself it was an accident of war," I said. "It wasn't. It was my map and my order, and I've fought over this toll for nine years."

"Declan," the bald captain said.

"The Calumet toll goes to the Brandolini widows' fund. All of it, from this Monday. Not Falzone. Not us."

"You can't."

"I wrote to the Detroit Don this morning. It's done."

The wind came up off the lake and flapped our coats.

"And Boston's widows?" the captain said. His voice cracked on it. "You'd take a third of what our widows eat at Christmas and hand it to strangers?"

"I'll pay that third myself."

"With what?"

"The Seaport building, and the house in Southie that my father left me."

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