Chapter 3
Vincent began leaving the bunker.
At first, he told himself it was practical.
He worked in the library because it was closer to Matteo’s rooms. He appeared in the kitchen because he needed coffee. He happened to pass the veranda when Clara took Matteo outside.
The excuses became increasingly ridiculous.
Clara noticed.
She said nothing.
One afternoon, Vincent entered the kitchen and found her frying eggs while Matteo sat at the island.
“Morning,” she said.
Vincent checked his watch.
“One fifteen.”
“Maybe in civilization. I’m not convinced clocks work normally in your underground command center.”
Matteo’s mouth twitched.
Vincent saw it.
He sat beside him.
Matteo immediately became rigid.
Vincent hated that reaction more than he hated bullets.
“How’s therapy?”
“He despises me,” Clara said.
Matteo glanced at her.
“But his range is improving. His core is stronger. Yesterday he sat unsupported for three minutes.”
Vincent turned toward his son.
“You did?”
Matteo lowered his eyes.
Vincent looked at Clara.
“That wasn’t in the report.”
“Because you read my reports like you’re investigating a death.”
Vincent slowly set down his coffee.
Clara crossed her arms.
“Ask him.”
So Vincent did.
“Matteo?”
The boy continued eating.
“Did you sit up by yourself?”
A pause.
Then Matteo nodded.
Vincent swallowed.
“That’s good.”
Another pause.
“That’s really good.”
Matteo’s shoulders loosened.
It was a tiny change.
Vincent felt it like an earthquake.
Across the island, Clara watched him.
He thought of Toby.
For one dangerous moment, he almost told her.
Instead he drank his coffee.
Information had always been currency in Vincent’s world.
He had not yet learned how to turn it into trust.
Spring arrived.
The hidden cameras recorded Matteo’s slow return to life.
There was no miracle.
There were exercises, bad days, arguments, medication, exhaustion, and incremental gains so small most people would have overlooked them.
Vincent didn’t.
He saw Matteo laugh when Clara dropped flour over herself while baking.
He saw his son sit on the veranda with wind blowing against his face.
He heard longer conversations.
He heard questions.
He began hearing “Dad” again.
And gradually, Vincent stopped watching from below.
He started participating.
One evening in late May, he was working in the library when Clara appeared carrying two glasses and a bottle of bourbon from his private cabinet.
Vincent looked at the bottle.
“Did you steal that?”
“Borrowed.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I knew you’d say no.”
She poured two glasses.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Drink.”
Vincent accepted the glass.
Outside the estate, a turf war was worsening. Two lieutenants had been killed at the docks. The Moretti syndicate was probing his territory.
Inside, Matteo had asked Vincent a question that afternoon.
Vincent stared into his bourbon.
“He asked me about the bombing.”
Clara stopped drinking.
“He wanted to know whether they’ll come back.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That nobody will ever touch him again.”
Clara waited.
Vincent’s fingers tightened around the glass.
“But I can’t promise that.”
For once, the words kept coming.
“I built all this because I thought enough power could make us untouchable. Men answer when I call. Judges return favors. Police look in other directions. I can shut down half the docks with one phone call.”
His laugh held no humor.
“And none of it bought my son’s legs back.”
Clara rose.
She walked around the desk.
Vincent tracked her automatically.
“You can’t control everything.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
Her hand touched the back of his neck.
Vincent froze.
It had been so long since someone had touched him without fear that his body didn’t know how to interpret gentleness.
“You don’t have to control the world,” Clara said. “You have to show up in the room.”
Her thumb moved lightly against his skin.
“Matteo doesn’t need a king.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“He needs his father.”
He reached up and closed his hand around her wrist.
He didn’t remove it.
“Who does this for you?”
Clara stiffened.
Vincent opened his eyes.
“Who takes care of you?”
“No one needs to.”
It was the least convincing thing she had ever said.
She pulled away.
“Good night, Vincent.”
He watched her leave.
For the first time, she had called him by his first name.
For the first time, Vincent wished he had never ordered Dominic to open that folder.
Because he knew exactly why she was running.
He also knew he had no right to stop her.
The attack came on a Tuesday.
A trusted grocery truck arrived at the rear service entrance.
Vincent was in the bunker on a secure call with Dominic when he noticed the delivery driver on one of the feeds.
Thomas.
The young man had made the same delivery for six months.
Today, he was sweating.
The kitchen was cool.
Thomas’s eyes kept moving toward Matteo.
Vincent stopped speaking.
On-screen, Thomas put down a box.
His hand moved toward his jacket.
Vincent stood.
“Dominic.”
“What?”
“Kitchen. Now.”
Vincent drew his pistol.
“Lethal force authorized.”
He ran.
Upstairs, Clara saw the same details.
The sweat.
The trembling hand.
The fixation on Matteo.
Thomas pulled a suppressed pistol.
Clara moved before the weapon was fully raised.
She launched herself across the island and struck him.
The first shot shattered dishes behind Matteo.
He screamed.
Clara hit the floor with Thomas.
He drove an elbow into her face.
Her head struck a cabinet.
Still she held his gun wrist.
“Matteo!”
The boy stared.
“Move!”
His hands found the wheelchair controls.
Thomas tore himself free.
Clara tried to grab him again.
Matteo’s chair struck the doorway as he escaped into the hall.
Thomas pointed the pistol down at Clara.
Vincent entered the kitchen.
Two shots.
Thomas collapsed.
Vincent barely looked at him.
Clara was on the floor.
Blood spread across her shirt.
Vincent dropped beside her.
“Clara.”
Her hand clutched his collar.
“Matteo?”
“He’s safe.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s safe.”
Vincent pressed both hands against her shoulder wound.
Her blood covered his fingers.
Clara looked toward the doorway.
“I didn’t let them.”
“What?”
Her eyes filled.
“I didn’t let them take this one.”
Vincent understood.
Toby.
The child dying on a Boston sidewalk.
The child she couldn’t save.
And now Matteo.
“You saved him,” Vincent said.
Her breathing trembled.
“You saved my son.”
The private medical team arrived.
Dominic appeared carrying Matteo, who had abandoned the chair in panic and clung to him.
Vincent stood between them.
His son.
Clara.
His family, though he had not yet dared call it that.
Something cold settled inside him.
The Morettis had crossed a boundary.
Business could be negotiated.
Territory could be divided.
Money could be replaced.
Family was different.
Clara woke in the estate’s underground medical wing.
Vincent sat beside her in a bloodstained shirt.
Her first word was Matteo’s name.
“He’s safe.”
Only then did her body relax.
Vincent helped her drink water.
“The bullet went through your shoulder. Your clavicle was damaged. They repaired it.”
Clara closed her eyes.
After several minutes, Vincent spoke.
“There’s something else.”
Her eyes opened.
“I had Dominic investigate you.”
The heart monitor accelerated.
Vincent hated himself for hearing it.
May you like
“I know about Boston.”
She turned toward the wall.
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