Chapter 8 - The Cold House in Lake Forest
Three days later, the rain stopped, leaving the North Shore draped in a thin, grey fog that drifted off Lake Michigan like smoke from a wet fire.
The house in Lake Forest was older than the one on Dearborn Street. It sat behind twelve feet of black wrought-iron fence, surrounded by six acres of oak trees that had gone bare for the winter.
Laurel stood on the stone terrace, holding a cup of hot tea that had no sugar in it. Her rib was better—the doctor had taped her chest tightly with white linen, and the pain had settled into a dull, manageable throb that only bothered her when she turned too quickly.
Down on the lawn, Leo was running through the wet leaves in a pair of new yellow rubber boots that Damian had ordered from a shop in Evanston.
Damian was standing ten feet behind the boy, his long coat unbuttoned, his hands in his pockets, watching every step the toddler took with the cold, methodical attention of an artillery officer checking his range.
"He’s going to fall," Laurel called out from the terrace.
"He’s three feet off the ground," Damian said without turning around. "If he falls, he’ll learn how the grass feels."
"He’s two years old, Daniel!"
"He’s a Moretti," Damian said. "The sooner he learns the ground is wet, the better."
Leo did fall. His foot caught on a thick oak root, and he tumbled forward into a pile of damp brown leaves, his yellow boots sticking straight up in the air like two small markers.
Laurel dropped her tea cup on the stone floor, the porcelain shattering into three sharp pieces as she ran for the steps.
Before she reached the bottom stair, Damian had already reached the boy.
He didn't pick him up by his arms; he reached down, caught the collar of the boy’s blue coat, and hauled him upright in one effortless lift, setting him back on his feet like a small wooden toy.
Leo had leaves in his dark hair and dirt on his nose. He looked up at Damian, his mouth open, ready to let out the high, piercing scream he always used when he dropped his food on the floor in Toledo.
Damian looked down at him, his face completely unreadable.
"You’re fine," Damian said.
Leo blinked. The scream died in his throat. He looked down at his yellow boots, then at the leaves on his coat.
"Dirty," Leo said.
"It’s dirt," Damian said, reaching down with two long fingers to pick a wet oak leaf off the boy’s forehead. "It washes off. Go find another root."
Leo hesitated for two seconds, then turned and stomped off toward a big maple tree near the fence, his yellow boots making a wet squelch-squelch sound in the mud.
Laurel reached the bottom of the steps, her hand pressed against her taped ribs, her breath coming fast.
"You don't have to be so hard on him," she said, her voice shaking.
"The world is going to be harder," Damian said, turning to face her. "In five years, he’s going to have six security men following his school bus. In ten years, he’s going to know that three of his uncles are in prison and two of his cousins are buried in Indiana. He doesn't need a father who tells him the mud won't hurt him."
"He needs a father who acts like a human being!" she shouted, her voice carrying across the empty lawn toward the grey line of the lake.
"I’m not a human being, Laurel," Damian said softly. "I’m the guy who keeps the human beings from being eaten by the wolves."
He turned and walked toward the iron gate where Rafe was standing next to a black Mercedes with tinted windows.
"Where are you going?" she called after him.
Damian stopped, his hand on the handle of the car door. He didn't look back at her; he looked at the grey water of the lake visible through the trees.
"Marco’s calling a meeting in Cicero," Damian said. "He wants to ask about the boy."
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"Daniel—"
"Stay inside the fence, Laurel," he said, his voice dropping into that final, dark tone that left no room for answers. "And don't let him eat the leaves. They’re full of rot."
