Chapter 5 - Shadows in the Living Room
The safe house was a sprawling, concrete-and-timber estate tucked deep into the cedar forests near Mercer Island.
It did not look like a mob boss's hideout; it looked like a modern architectural masterpiece, with high glass windows overlooking the black, still waters of Lake Washington. But Claire noted the heavy steel reinforcements in the door frames, the silent motion sensors along the perimeter fence, and the four quiet, dark-suited men stationed at the edge of the property.
Inside, a fire was already crackling in the massive stone fireplace.
Marco had brought clean, dry clothes—simple cotton sweatpants and soft wool sweaters that were surprisingly the right size for both Claire and Leo.
"The clothes were bought yesterday," Marco explained quietly as he set a tray of hot soup and warm milk on the kitchen island. "Mr. Caruso had us stock three sizes for the boy... just in case."
Claire didn't thank him. She sat on the long leather sofa near the fire, wrapped in a blanket, watching Leo eat his soup.
The little boy was exhausted. The excitement of the big ships, the rain, and the strange men had finally caught up with him. Within twenty minutes, his head dropped against Claire’s lap, his eyes slipping shut as his small thumb found its way into his mouth.
The room was silent except for the crackle of the burning cedar logs.
Vincent stood near the far window, staring out at the rain hitting the lake. He had changed into a dark turtleneck and black trousers, his silvered hair brushed back from his forehead. He looked like a shadow against the glass.
"He sleeps like you," Vincent said softly, not turning around. "He buries his face when he's tired."
Claire stroked Leo's damp hair, her fingers untangling the tiny curls at the back of his neck. "He sleeps like himself, Vincent."
Vincent turned around slowly. He carried a tumbler of scotch, but he hadn't touched it. The amber liquid sat still in the glass.
"Why didn't you tell me, Claire?" he asked. The question was quiet, devoid of anger, filled only with a deep, bottomless exhaustion. "That night... at the gala. Why didn't you come to the office the next morning? Why didn't you leave a note?"
Claire looked up at him, her eyes flashing with a sudden, furious light.
"You told two hundred people I meant nothing to you," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, trembling whisper so as not to wake the boy. "You said it to a room full of reporters. You looked right at me, Vincent. You saw me. And you erased me."
Vincent winced, lowering his eyes to the hardwood floor.
"It was a strike," Vincent whispered. "The Moretti family had placed three hitmen in the gallery above the ballroom. They were waiting for me to acknowledge you. If I had smiled at you... if I had walked over to you... they would have shot you on the steps of the hotel before my men could clear the roof."
Claire froze, her hand pausing on Leo’s head.
"What?" she breathed.
"I spent six months planning that gala to trap them," Vincent continued, his voice tight, tortured. "I knew they were watching. I knew they wanted to find my weak spot. And then the reporter asked about you."
He looked up, his black eyes burning into hers.
"You were my weak spot, Claire. You were the only thing in this world that could break me. If they knew you were my life, they would have used you to bleed me dry. So I gave them what they wanted. I gave them the lie."
Claire stared at him, her chest heaving as the five-year-old wall of anger inside her began to show its first terrible, jagged cracks.
"You should have told me," she choked out. "Before... after... you should have trusted me!"
"I called you twenty-one times!" Vincent took three sudden, furious steps toward the sofa. "I drove to your apartment at three in the morning! I broke down your door, Claire! And all I found was an empty closet and a key on the counter!"
May you like
He stopped, hovering above her, his breathing ragged, his hand trembling as he pointed toward the sleeping boy.
"I spent five years believing I had destroyed the only good thing I ever owned," Vincent wept softly, a single tear cutting through the shadow on his cheek. "I spent five years in an empty house, fighting a war I didn't care about anymore, because I thought you were safe from me. And all the while... my son was growing up three thousand miles away, asking why he had his father's scar."
