Chapter 7 - Eight Years Between Us
The first night after Jonah died, nobody slept.
Not because of danger.
Because silence had returned.
For weeks every conversation involved police, kidnappers, servers, medical tests, guards, evidence.
Then suddenly there was nothing urgent enough to hide behind.
The twins were asleep upstairs.
Griffin and I sat in his kitchen at 1:13 in the morning.
He made coffee.
I stared at it.
He noticed.
“Too soon?”
“Very.”
He poured mine out and made tea.
Progress.
“Why architecture?” he asked.
“What?”
“You changed specialties.”
He had apparently investigated my life thoroughly.
“Residential work felt safer.”
“Than skyscrapers?”
“Than high-profile clients.”
He understood.
“I followed your career for two years after you disappeared.”
I looked at him.
“You said you checked Boston.”
“I checked everywhere.”
“Why stop?”
“Your new identity became clean.”
“What did you think?”
“That you didn’t want to be found.”
True.
He sat opposite me.
“Then I hated myself for continuing to look.”
“Why?”
“Because maybe loving you meant respecting the answer.”
That hurt.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I’ll probably keep saying it.”
He looked toward the stairs.
“Do they know about my work?”
“Not the criminal part.”
“Will you tell them?”
“Eventually, age appropriately.”
He nodded.
“You're good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being a mother.”
My eyes filled unexpectedly.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Compliment me when I'm tired.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“Were you happy?”
“Sometimes.”
“With them, mostly.”
“With anyone else?”
The question was dangerous.
“No.”
“You never married?”
“No.”
“Relationship?”
“A few.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Do territorial Mafia face.”
“I don't have one.”
“You absolutely do.”
He laughed.
God.
I had missed that.
Then he became serious.
“I was engaged.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Three years after you left.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn't do it.”
“Because of me?”
“Partly.”
Guilt.
Again.
“Her name was Camille. Good woman. Smarter than both of us.”
“Did she know?”
“About you? Eventually.”
“What did she say?”
“That I was emotionally married to someone who didn’t exist.”
Ouch.
“She left.”
“Smart.”
“Yes.”
We sat with that.
Then I asked the question that had haunted me.
“If I had told you I was pregnant, what would you have done?”
He answered immediately.
“Left.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The organization.”
“You wouldn't.”
“I had already been planning to reduce it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Griffin, you loved power.”
“I loved surviving.”
Difference.
“My father died. Jonah ‘died.’ The Caruso war escalated. I thought violence was the only language left.”
He looked at me.
“If you had told me there were babies coming…”
He shook his head.
“I would have run with you.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
He corrected himself.
“I believe I would have tried.”
Better.
Truth.
“I took that choice from you.”
“Yes.”
He did not rescue me from responsibility.
Good.
“But my mother and Jonah created the fear that pushed you.”
“Yes.”
“And my life made that fear believable.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“So who do we blame?” he asked.
“Everyone.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
We did not kiss.
Not that night.
Healing needed something slower.
The paternity court process formalized Griffin’s legal fatherhood.
I did not oppose shared custody.
His lawyer seemed shocked.
So did mine.
The twins were delighted.
Two homes sounded exciting until Griffin’s first scheduled solo weekend.
Hazel called me fourteen times.
Iris called twice.
The second call:
“Dad burned pancakes.”
“I did not burn them,” Griffin shouted in background.
“They’re black.”
“Caramelized.”
I laughed until I cried.
Ordinary.
Beautifully ordinary.
Griffin attended school meetings.
Learned dance-recital etiquette.
Discovered Iris hated public praise.
Learned Hazel needed twenty minutes of talking before sleep.
He missed things.
Made mistakes.
Showed up again.
That mattered.
Meanwhile, his businesses changed.
Illegal operations closed gradually.
Cash networks dismantled.
Old associates furious.
Some threats followed.
But this time Griffin involved law enforcement before they became wars.
One former captain confronted him outside a restaurant.
“You're letting a woman and two kids turn you weak.”
Griffin answered:
“No. They made me notice how tired I was of being dangerous.”
Someone recorded it.
The video went viral locally.
Griffin hated that.
Hazel loved it.
“You’re internet famous.”
“I was already famous.”
“For crime.”
“Thank you.”
Six months after the poisoning, I returned to my house.
Repairs complete.
Security upgraded.
But standing in the office where I collapsed made my chest tighten.
Hazel noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
She looked at broken-coffee stain still faintly visible on one board.
“We should move.”
I stared.
“You love this house.”
“I love us more.”
Sometimes children make leaving simple.
We sold it.
Not to hide.
To choose.
The twins asked whether we would move into Griffin’s estate permanently.
I hesitated.
Griffin said nothing.
Good.
No pressure.
We found another answer.
A new house.
Ours?
Not yet.
A home halfway between my old neighborhood and Griffin’s waterfront world.
Warm wood.
Color.
Four bedrooms.
A studio for me.
Library for Iris.
Backyard for Hazel.
Griffin bought nothing secretly.
We split ownership proportionate to income until I threatened him with bodily harm for suggesting ninety-nine percent would be easier.
“You earn more.”
“Understatement.”
“That doesn’t mean I become your dependent.”
“I know.”
He did now.
The moving day ended with pizza boxes on the floor.
Hazel fell asleep against Griffin.
Iris against me.
Our shoulders touched.
He whispered:
“Feels familiar.”
“What?”
“You asleep beside me.”
“I’m not asleep.”
“Still argumentative.”
“Still criminally annoying.”
“Formerly criminal.”
“Under review.”
He smiled.
Then looked at the twins.
“I love them.”
“I know.”
His voice lowered.
“I still love you.”
There it was.
No hospital.
No kidnappers.
No crisis.
Just truth.
I looked at him.
“I never really stopped.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“That doesn’t mean we’re fixed.”
“No.”
“No pretending eight years disappear.”
“No.”
“No using the girls to force us.”
“Never.”
I took his hand.
“But maybe tomorrow.”
He squeezed it.
“Tomorrow.”
The next morning, Hazel found us asleep on the sofa holding hands.
She screamed:
“IRIS! THEY’RE FINALLY DOING SOMETHING!”
May you like
Romance with children lacks dignity.
But for the first time in eight years, I did not want to run.
