Chapter 9 - THE PROMISE ON THE PIER
The Hudson River glistened like crushed diamonds beneath the late afternoon sun.
Ambrose and Karen walked side by side along the wooden pier at the edge of the newly renovated waterfront park. Ambrose wore a simple charcoal suit, his coat open, his silver-capped walking stick swinging gently at his side.
For the first time since they had met, there were no guards following twenty feet behind them. The war was over; the territory was secure; and Marrow Hill had entered a peaceful era unlike anything it had known in forty years.
"The neighborhood is changing," Karen noted softly, watching two young children fly a kite near the lawn. "People are calling the new shops by their real names instead of calling them 'Calvano property.'"
"That is because they are your properties now, Karen," Ambrose said, stopping near the edge of the pier overlooking the water. "I transferred fifty percent of the commercial real estate trust into your name yesterday morning."
Karen froze, turning her head to look at him in disbelief. "Ambrose... what? You can't do that!"
"It is already done," Ambrose said smoothly, leaning his hip against the wooden railing. "I am a crime lord, Karen. My name carries weight, but it also carries blood. If Alder Street is going to thrive for the next fifty years, it needs a leader whom the people love and respect. It needs you."
Karen stared at him, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his trust.
"Why are you doing all of this for me?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the river waves lapping against the wooden pilings below. "You've spent millions of dollars, fought a war, and restructured your entire business... all for a seamstress from a basement."
Ambrose looked at her.
He reached out, his large, warm hand gently lifting her chin until her eyes met his. His thumb moved slowly across her scarred left cheek, tracing the line of her skin with an aching, desperate tenderness.
"Because seven months ago, I was a dead man walking through a dead city," Ambrose said, his voice thick with raw, unfiltered truth. "I had money, I had power, and I had hundreds of men who feared me. But I had nothing that was real."
He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching hers.
"And then I saw a woman standing in a wet market, refusing to let a man steal sixty cents from her," Ambrose whispered. "I saw a woman who possessed more honor in her little finger than every politician in this state combined. You saved my life, Karen—not just in the fire at the Imperial Hotel, but every single day since I met you."
Karen felt a hot tear escape her eye, trailing down over her scar.
Ambrose reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box. He popped the brass latch open.
Inside rested a simple, magnificent ring—not a giant, ostentatious diamond meant to impress socialites, but a band made of solid platinum, hand-carved in the intricate pattern of a woven thread, set with a single, glowing emerald that matched the dress she had worn to war.
Ambrose sank down onto one knee on the wooden boards of the pier.
The boss of Marrow Hill—the man three hundred gangsters feared—knelt on the wood before a scarred seamstress, his head lifted, his hand holding out his heart.
"Karen Ashby," Ambrose said, his voice trembling slightly. "Will you do me the absolute honor of becoming my wife?"
Karen looked at the ring, then looked down at the man kneeling before her.
May you like
She didn't turn her face away. She didn't hide her scar. She stepped forward, sank down onto her knees beside him on the wooden pier, wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, and buried her face against his shoulder.
"Yes," Karen sobbed softly, tears of joy washing over her cheeks. "Yes, Ambrose... yes."
