Chapter 4 - The Safe House
Vincent did not move for a long time.
He stayed on his knees in the mud, his hands pressed tightly over his face while the rain drenched his dark overcoat. When he finally lowered his hands, his eyes were red, the silver-gray irises raw with an emotion Claire had never seen in him during the three years they had lived together.
He looked at Leo, then up at Claire.
"He needs to get out of the rain," Vincent said quietly. His voice had lost its harsh edge; it was thin, cracked, fragile.
"We have a car," Claire said, her teeth chattering from the cold and the terror that was slowly clawing its way back into her throat. "We're going home."
"Claire," Marco stepped out from the lead Navigator, holding a large black umbrella over Vincent as the boss stood up from the gravel. "You can't go back to the cottage on Bainbridge."
Claire snapped her head toward Marco. "Why not? You've been spying on me? You've been following my son?!"
"Not us," Marco said gravely, his eyes darting toward the dark treeline at the edge of the port parking lot. "Moretti’s men tracked Vincent’s plane when it landed at Sea-Tac two hours ago. They don't know who the boy is yet, but they saw Vincent kneel. If they realize what he means to him, that house on Bainbridge won't survive the night."
Claire felt the world spin.
Moretti.
She remembered that name from New York. A rival family—ruthless, old-school, men who targeted wives and children to settle scores.
"You brought them here," Claire whispered, turning her terrified gaze back to Vincent. "Five years of peace... five years of keeping him safe... and you brought your war to my son!"
Vincent took a quick step forward, his hands coming up in a defensive, placating gesture. "Claire, look at me. Look at me!"
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, slapping his hand away.
Leo let out a frightened cry, burying his face into Claire’s coat.
Vincent winced as if she had struck him with an iron bar. He took a half-step back, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I didn't know he existed, Claire! If I had known—"
"If you had known, what?!" she sobbed, rain pouring down her nose and chin. "You would have put armed guards at his crib?! You would have raised him in a bulletproof high-rise like a prisoner?! I saved him from you, Vincent! I saved him from your life!"
Vincent stood perfectly still under Marco’s umbrella, accepting every word like a whip across his back.
"You're right," Vincent said softly. "You were right to run. You were right to hide him. But right now, Claire... right now, there are three cars sitting on the highway two miles from here waiting for my signal. If you drive that old Volvo back to the ferry, you won't make it to the island."
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a small, heavy silver coin. He held it out toward Leo, keeping his palm flat and open.
"I have a place," Vincent said, his eyes fixed on the boy. "Ten miles south. Fortified. No one knows about it. Give me twelve hours to clear the roads. Then... if you still want to leave... I will let you go. I swear it on my life."
Claire looked at the coin in his palm. It was an old Italian naval medal—the same coin Vincent used to keep on his nightstand in New York, the one he had let her hold when she was anxious.
She looked at her four-year-old son, who was shivering against her legs, his rain boot soaked through.
She had no choice. She had never had a choice where Vincent Caruso was concerned.
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"Twelve hours," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper. "And if any of your men come near him without my permission, I'll kill you myself, Vincent."
A faint, ghostly shadow of a smile touched the corner of Vincent’s mouth—the first sign of the man she used to know. "I'd expect nothing less, mia cara."
