Chapter 8 - The Price of Protection
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Noah slept in my bed that night.
I lay beside him until his breathing settled into a steady rhythm, one hand resting over his small back. Every time he stirred, I woke. Every time a car passed outside, my heart tightened.
The police had taken the man from the storage facility into custody. He refused to identify his employer, but the phone recovered from his pocket contained messages connected to a disposable account used by one of Victor Sloane's companies.
It was enough to move the investigation forward.
It was not enough to make me feel safe.
Vincent waited in the living room until I came out.
He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Without the usual armor of tailored clothing and public authority, he looked older than I remembered.
“Is he all right?” he asked.
“He's asleep.”
“I'd like to see him.”
“No.”
He nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
I had expected him to argue.
Instead, he stood and moved toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To arrange security for the building. I'll make sure the people assigned to you are vetted by Rebecca's team, not just mine.”
“You don't need to do that yourself.”
“I know. But I need to do something useful that doesn't involve making decisions for you.”
The honesty disarmed me.
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
“Thank you for agreeing to wait for the agents.”
He looked surprised.
“I wanted to go in.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to tear the building apart until I found him.”
“I know that, too.”
He looked down at his hands.
“Three years ago, I thought being a husband meant making sure nothing could hurt my family. I thought money and influence could solve anything. When you were struggling after Noah was born, I treated your pain like an inconvenience because I didn't know how to fix it.”
“You could have listened.”
“Yes.”
“You could have asked what I needed.”
“Yes.”
“You could have stopped comparing me to Sophia.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I folded my arms.
“Why didn't you?”
He took a long breath.
“Because I was frightened. I knew how to handle threats, money, and men who wanted to take something from me. I didn't know how to handle the fact that the woman I loved was suffering, and I couldn't make it stop.”
“So you blamed me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came without excuse.
“I thought if I could make you act like the woman I remembered, I wouldn't have to admit how helpless I felt. It was selfish and cruel.”
I stared at him.
For three years, I had wondered whether he had ever understood what he had done. Now he was finally saying the words I had needed to hear, but the knowledge came too late to repair the damage by itself.
“I'm not going back to the way things were,” I said.
“I don't expect you to.”
“I won't live in your house. I won't give up my work. I won't let your people make decisions about Noah without me.”
“Agreed.”
“And I won't be with you because you're afraid of losing us.”
He looked at me.
“I wouldn't want you for that reason.”
“Then why do you want me?”
His expression softened.
“Because you make me face the parts of myself I've spent my life avoiding. Because you can look at me when everyone else is afraid to. Because when you left, I realized I'd spent years trying to control the one person who had ever loved me without being impressed by what I owned.”
I wanted to believe him.
But words were easy, especially for a man who had spent his life negotiating.
“Show me,” I said.
He nodded.
“I will.”
The following morning, Rebecca arrived with an update. The captured kidnapper had been identified as a former security contractor who had worked for a subsidiary of Victor Sloane's company. He claimed he had been paid to frighten me into handing over the bracelet, but the agents suspected he knew more.
“There's another problem,” Rebecca said. “The school pickup authorization was submitted electronically. The account used to approve it belongs to a company associated with Luca.”
“Can we prove Luca submitted it?” I asked.
“Not yet. The account could have been compromised.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Luca has access to our security systems.”
“Then his access needs to be suspended,” I said.
Vincent looked at me.
“If I suspend him now, he'll know we're investigating.”
“He already knows. Someone kidnapped your son.”
Rebecca raised a hand.
“Both of you are right. We need to preserve the records before changing access. I'll request the relevant logs through the proper channels.”
She opened another folder.
“There is also a financial connection between Victor Sloane and the old jewelry company your mother investigated. A trust transferred money to Elias Voss shortly before your father's death.”
I felt cold.
“Can we find Elias?”
“We're trying.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“If Luca is involved, I want him brought in.”
“By the authorities,” Rebecca reminded him. “Not by your men.”
He sat back, visibly struggling.
I touched the edge of the table.
“Vincent, if you want to prove you've changed, this is where it starts. You let the investigation follow the evidence, even if the evidence leads to someone you love.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he nodded.
“Do it.”
That afternoon, I returned to my workshop under protection. The broken window had been boarded up, and the bullet holes had been marked for the police report. I stood among the scattered glass and felt a strange determination settle over me.
Someone wanted the truth buried.
I would not help them.
I placed the bracelet beneath the magnifying lamp and examined the hidden seam again. The tiny paper strip had contained only a partial set of account numbers. My mother's letter suggested there was a larger portfolio somewhere, a collection of original documents that could prove the fraud.
I searched every drawer, every box, and every old design book.
At the bottom of a cabinet, I found a sketch of the Moretti family crest.
A small note was written beneath it.
The first fortune was built beside the river. Look beneath the clock that never tells the truth.
I knew the place.
The old Moretti shipping office, now abandoned, stood beside the Chicago River. A broken clock had hung over its entrance for decades.
I photographed the sketch and sent it to Rebecca.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Vincent stood in the doorway.
“I came to check on you,” he said. “Gabriel told me you found something.”
I showed him the sketch.
His face changed.
“My grandfather's office.”
“What's beneath the clock?”
“I don't know. But if your mother hid something there, someone else may have found it.”
He took out his phone.
I caught his wrist.
“Wait.”
He looked at me.
“We go with Rebecca and the authorities. No private team. No threats. No shortcuts.”
He lowered the phone.
“All right.”
May you like
For the first time, I saw the choice cost him something.
And for the first time, he made it anyway.
