Chapter 8 - The HeirVincent did not sleep that night.
Neither did Clara.
Matteo eventually fell asleep in Vincent’s bed because no one could convince him to return to his own room.
Clara sat beside him while Vincent and Dominic worked in the adjoining study.
At four in the morning, Vincent entered.
Clara looked up.
“Well?”
He closed the door quietly.
“They weren’t here for territory.”
She already knew.
“Matteo.”
Vincent nodded.
“Why?”
“Because whoever organized this believes killing me would create instability.”
“And Matteo?”
“He inherits everything.”
Clara stared at him.
“He’s eight.”
“In my world, that doesn’t matter.”
Her stomach turned.
Vincent sat on the edge of the bed.
Matteo slept between them, one hand curled beneath his cheek.
“For years, I thought making him my legal heir protected him.”
Clara understood immediately.
“It painted a target on him.”
“Yes.”
“What do we do?”
Vincent looked at her.
“We leave.”
She blinked.
“You leave?”
“All of us.”
“The estate?”
“Temporarily.”
Clara studied him.
The old Vincent would have turned the property into a battlefield.
He would have doubled the guards.
Built higher walls.
Waited for enemies to come.
“You’re actually willing to walk away.”
“I’m willing to choose my son over proving nobody can move me.”
Clara’s throat tightened.
“Where?”
“A house in Maine. Private coastline. Different ownership structure. Dominic can secure it.”
“And your organization?”
“Can survive without me standing in this building.”
She almost smiled.
“That sounds dangerously healthy.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
By sunrise, the estate moved with controlled urgency.
Cars were changed.
Routes altered.
Phones replaced.
Matteo woke to discover three suitcases outside the bedroom.
“Vacation?”
Vincent considered the question.
“Something like that.”
“Are people trying to kill us?”
Clara closed her eyes.
Vincent answered.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
Matteo was silent.
Then he said, “Okay.”
Vincent frowned.
“Okay?”
“Last time nobody told me anything.”
His fingers tightened around the blanket.
“I hated that.”
Vincent sat beside him.
“You’re right.”
Matteo looked at Clara.
“She’s coming?”
“Yes.”
“Dominic?”
“Yes.”
“Pizza?”
Clara laughed.
“We’ll locate pizza.”
Matteo nodded.
“Then okay.”
Six hours later, the convoy left through the southern service road.
Vincent looked back once.
The house stood above the cliffs like a fortress.
For years, it had represented everything he had built.
Power.
Control.
Safety.
Now he understood that none of those things lived in stone.
Matteo sat beside Clara in the vehicle ahead.
That was his home.
The journey north took almost twelve hours because Dominic changed routes twice.
They arrived after midnight.
The Maine house was nothing like the Rossi estate.
Smaller.
Wooden.
Weathered shingles.
No marble.
No ballroom.
No underground bunker.
Matteo stared through the window.
“This is yours?”
Vincent opened his door.
“Apparently.”
“It looks normal.”
Vincent looked offended.
Clara smiled.
“That’s the nicest insult anyone has ever given him.”
Inside, they discovered three bedrooms, an old stone fireplace, and a kitchen that had clearly not been renovated in twenty years.
Matteo immediately loved it.
There was one problem.
The hallway upstairs was too narrow for his wheelchair.
Vincent stared at the staircase as though architecture had personally betrayed him.
“We’ll renovate.”
Clara looked around.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“At one in the morning?”
“If necessary.”
Matteo sighed.
“Dad.”
Vincent looked at him.
“I can sleep downstairs.”
Something about the simplicity of that statement stopped him.
No custom medical suite.
No perfectly prepared environment.
Just adaptation.
“All right,” Vincent said.
They moved a bed into the room beside the fireplace.
Clara found extra blankets.
Dominic disappeared to secure the perimeter.
By two in the morning, rain began tapping against the roof.
Matteo fell asleep quickly.
Clara stood beside the window.
Vincent approached behind her.
“You called me your wife.”
He became very still.
She turned.
“At the gatehouse.”
“I remember.”
“You haven’t mentioned it.”
“I was hoping you had suffered temporary hearing loss.”
“No.”
Vincent looked toward the sleeping Matteo.
Then back at her.
“It was not intentional.”
“I figured.”
“But it wasn’t meaningless either.”
Clara’s expression softened.
Vincent took her hand.
“I don’t know how to do this normally.”
“Clearly.”
“I can negotiate ports, unions, political contracts, shipping networks—”
“But one relationship frightens you.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised both of them.
Clara moved closer.
“Good.”
His brow furrowed.
“Good?”
“Means you understand it matters.”
Outside, rain covered the windows.
Inside the small house, Vincent kissed her.
No cameras.
No guards in the room.
May you like
No empire around them.
Only a sleeping child, an old fireplace, and two damaged adults discovering that a life could be rebuilt somewhere far quieter than either of them expected.
