Chapter 10 - The Ledger of the House
The night was quiet in Lake Forest.
The wind had died down, leaving the lake smooth as iron under a low, silver moon that broke through the grey clouds every few minutes.
Damian walked into the nursery on the second floor.
The room smelled of fresh paint, new carpet, and the sweet, clean scent of baby powder. A large wooden crib stood in the center, hand-carved from dark cherry wood that Damian had ordered from a craftsman in Vermont three days ago.
Leo was asleep on his stomach, his small face turned to the side, his thumb tucked into his mouth, his dark curls matted against his forehead.
Laurel was sitting in a low rocking chair near the window, a book open in her lap, though she wasn't reading it. She was wearing a thick grey wool robe over her nightgown, her red hair tied back with a black ribbon.
She looked up when Damian came in.
"Is it done?" she asked softly.
"It’s done," Damian said. "Marco won't come here."
"How do you know?"
"Because he likes his money more than he likes his pride," Damian said, stepping up to the side of the crib. He looked down at the boy’s small, quiet shape. "And because he knows if he touches either of you, I’ll burn everything he owns until he’s begging for a job in a car wash."
Laurel looked at him for a long time. The bruised cheek had faded to a pale yellow-green now, her skin looking almost delicate under the soft yellow light of the nightlamp.
"You’re going to spend the rest of his life doing this, aren't you?" she asked. "Fighting men in back rooms so he can live in a house with twelve feet of iron fence?"
"Yes," Damian said.
"It’s no way to live, Daniel."
"It’s the only way to stay alive," Damian said. He reached down into the crib, his long, scarred fingers hovering an inch above the boy’s dark hair before he finally let them rest—very lightly, almost weightlessly—on the child’s small, warm shoulder.
Leo shifted in his sleep, letting out a small sigh that sounded like a dry leaf falling on a stone. He didn't wake up.
"He called you 'Daddy' again today," Laurel said, her voice dropping so low it was almost lost in the quiet hum of the house's heating system. "When he was playing with those wooden blocks you brought him."
Damian didn't look at her. His hand remained on the boy’s shoulder, steady, warm, and heavy as iron.
"I heard him," Damian said.
"Does it mean anything to you?"
Damian turned his head slowly. The silver moonlight from the tall window caught the sharp line of his jaw and the long scar on his throat where an uncle had tried to cut him ten years ago.
"It means everything, Laurel," Damian said. "It’s the only thing in this whole damn city that isn't for sale."
He stood up, pulled his hand back, and walked toward the door.
At the frame, he stopped, his hand resting on the polished brass handle.
"The doctor’s coming back tomorrow at ten," Damian said without looking back. "He’s bringing the rest of the iron pills for your side. Eat something before he gets here."
"Daniel?" she called out as he stepped into the hallway.
He paused. "What?"
May you like
"Thank you," she whispered. "For the spoon."
Damian didn't answer. He closed the heavy oak door softly behind him, the brass latch catching with a clean, heavy click that shut out the darkness of the world outside.
