Valuation.Ben’s numbers will arm me. Make Sugar Rush and the block look too valuable to bulldoze, or too toxic to touch if Taviani fights.
Capital.My money. My commitment. The signal to others that this is serious.
But I need more than money. I need voices. Influence. People who can make Taviani feel the heat.
I pick up the phone again.
Councilwoman Barbara Childs answers on the third ring. Her voice is brisk, efficient, with the underlying warmth I remember from the ribbon-cutting for the community center the Blades partially funded last year. “Denton Blake. This is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure? Checking on the center? The kids love the new hockey gear, by the way.”
“Good to hear, Councilwoman. Actually, I’m calling about another matter in your ward.” I dive straight in. No time for pleasantries. “Wicker Park. The block anchored by Sugar Rush Bakery. Tony Taviani is evicting Holly James effective December 26th for his ‘Village Square’ project.”
“Sugar Rush? Holly James? That’s… unfortunate. Taviani’s proposal has been… contentious. He’s got the zoning variance, Denton. The paperwork is filed. It’s a done deal, legally.”
“Legally, maybe. Ethically?” I lean forward, my elbows on the cool glass of the desk. “Taviani used intimidation tactics. Threatened baseless code complaints, leveraged personal tragedy. Holly has documentation. Witnesses. And that bakery is the heart of that block, Councilwoman. You know it and the community knows it.”
Childs is silent for a long moment. I can hear papers shuffling on her end. “Taviani has been… aggressive,” she concedescarefully. “And Holly James is well-liked. But Denton, the city needs development. Tax revenue. Jobs.”
“Development that displaces the very community it’s supposed to serve?” I counter, channeling Holly’s fierce defense of her neighborhood. “What about the jobs at Sugar Rush? At the other small businesses on that block? What about the character of Wicker Park? Replacing unique local shops with another generic chain retail box?”
I take a breath, modulating my tone. Less accusation, more strategy. “I’m putting together a consortium, Councilwoman. Community-backed. To buy the entire block from Taviani Holdings. Preserve the existing businesses. Create truly affordable commercial space. A model for responsible development. But Taviani won’t sell unless he feels pressure. Public pressure. Political pressure.”
Another pause. Longer. Heavier. “A consortium? Anchored by you?” Surprise colors her voice.
“Yes. And we’ll need allies. People who believe Chicago’s neighborhoods are worth more than just their square footage.” I let the offer hang. Unspoken:Be one of those allies. Get on the right side of this.“A well-placed statement from your office? Suggesting a community review of the Village Square project’sactualimpact? It could make Taviani reconsider. Open the door to negotiation.”
Silence stretches. Then, a slow exhale. “Let me see what I can do, Denton. No promises. But… Holly James bakes the best gingerbread cookies in the city. It would be a shame to lose that.”
“Thank you, Councilwoman.” I end the call.
The afternoon bleeds into a frantic montage of calls. I speak to Matthew Thompson at the Chicago Community Trust, asking for introductions to impact investors.
My voice grows hoarse, pitching the vision Ben Finch is simultaneously crunching numbers for: a vibrant, preserved block, a beacon against predatory development.
I call Robert Davies, a venture capitalist I met at a charity golf thing, who owes me for connecting him with the Blades’ ownership group. He’s skeptical, focused on ROI, until I mention the guaranteed media storm and the PR gold of saving a neighborhood bakery days before Christmas.
“Sentiment doesn’t usually move my needle, Denton,” Davies says, his voice dry. “But you’re talking about a viral story. ‘Hockey Star Saves Local Bakery from Grinch Developer’? That’s branding you can’t buy. And if this ownership model actually works… that’ll be something else. Count me in for a preliminary look at the numbers.”
Ben Finch calls back at 3:02 PM, as promised. His voice crackles with energy.
“Okay, Denton. Numbers are rough, but compelling. Taviani paid roughly $12 million for the block two years ago. With the current market, he could realistically get $18-20 mil flipping it to a condo developer tomorrow.” He pauses. “Our play? We value the bakery alone, as a thriving community asset with documented goodwill and established revenue at an aggressive $1.2 million.
“We pitch the whole block as a $15 million community investment. Lower immediate return for Taviani, buthugePR win, avoids a nasty, public legal battle, and gets him his capital out fast and clean. He’d be an idiot not to at least listen.”
$15 million. It’s a staggering number. “And the investor interest?”
“Promising,” Ben says. “I’ve got three people very interested and feelers out to three others. If you commit your capital publicly, Denton, others will follow.”
“Do it. Draft the offer letter. Send it to me and Meredith Vance within the hour. I want it in her hands before close of business.”
“You got it.” Ben’s voice holds a note of respect. “Playing for keeps, huh?”
“No other way to play,” I rasp, and hang up.
I push back from the desk, pacing the length of the living room. I’ve got one last call to make.
I find Paul’s number and my thumb hovers over it. This is it. The point of no return. Rejecting the trade isn’t just about staying in Chicago. It’s about burning the escape route. Committing fully to this fight. To Holly. To the terrifying, beautiful uncertainty of a life that isn’t walled off.
I hit call. It rings once. Twice.
