Chapter 11 - On Bended Knee
|
Vincent Moretti did not look like an apex predator anymore.
The immaculate, bespoke Italian suits had been replaced by a simple, damp wool coat and worn leather boots.
He was noticeably thinner, his broad cheekbones sharp beneath pale, rain-streaked skin.
His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the storm, and silver strands had multiplied across his temples.
He carried no weapons, no entourage of armed enforcers, and no arrogance in his posture.
He stood on the threshold of her greenhouse, his hands hanging limp and empty at his sides, trembling violently.
“Claire,” he choked out, his voice barely louder than the patter of raindrops on the glass panes.
Claire slowly set down the terra cotta pot, her face instantly locking into an impenetrable mask of stone.
She took two deliberate steps backward, positioning her body directly between the doorway and Leo’s bassinet.
Her right hand slipped smoothly into the pocket of her gardening apron, wrapping around the panic button linked to the local sheriff's station.
“Get out of my home, Vincent,” she said, her voice terrifyingly flat and cold.
Vincent did not step forward.
Instead, he took a step back, as if terrified that his very presence might contaminate the air she breathed.
“I’m not here to take him, Claire,” he whispered, tears mingling with the rainwater dripping down his hollow cheeks.
“I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m not here to take anything from you.”
“I don't care why you’re here,” Claire replied, refusing to lower her guard by an inch.
“You have thirty seconds to leave this property before the alarm triggers a response from the authorities.”
Vincent looked toward the bassinet, catching a glimpse of Leo’s tiny arm resting on the fleece blanket.
A strangled, broken sob tore from his chest.
Before Claire could react, the most feared and ruthless crime boss in the city of Chicago dropped hard onto both knees.
His knees slammed into the damp gravel and pine needles of the entrance floor, his head bowing until his forehead nearly touched her boots.
“Please,” Vincent wept, his shoulders shaking with an agony so profound it seemed to pull the breath from the room.
“Just let me look at him from here.”
“You don't ever have to speak to me again.”
“You don't ever have to come back.”
“Just let me see that he is breathing.”
Claire stood frozen, staring down at the broken man kneeling at her feet in the dirt.
This was the man who had ordered executions with a flick of his wrist.
This was the man who could not tolerate a single crumb on his furniture or a stray hair on his carpet.
Now he was kneeling in potting soil and rainwater, groveling like a condemned beggar in the quiet sanctuary she had built.
Leo stirred in the bassinet, letting out a small, sleepy yawn that broke the suffocating silence.
Vincent lifted his head slowly, his eyes wide and brimming with reverence as he looked toward the bassinet.
He looked like a man dying of thirst who had just caught sight of an oasis he knew he was forbidden to drink from.
“He’s beautiful, Claire,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with genuine awe.
“He’s so healthy.”
“You saved him.”
May you like
Claire pulled her hand out of her apron pocket, but her posture remained as rigid as iron.
“I saved us both from you, Vincent.”
