Chapter 6 - A Season of Healing
Winter in Chicago was long and brutal, but inside the Evanston estate, the months passed like a quiet, beautiful dream.
For the first time in her life, Meredith was not running. She did not wake up to the ticking clock of an overdue bill or the bitter cold of an unheated room. Instead, she woke to the sound of Beatrice singing softly in the kitchen, the smell of fresh pastry, and the steady, comforting presence of Harold repairing old wooden furniture in the sunroom.
Harold and Beatrice had taken to their renewed life with quiet grace. They treated Meredith not as a guest, but as the daughter they had lost years ago. Beatrice spent her afternoons knitting an entire wardrobe of baby clothes, while Harold meticulously built a handcrafted wooden crib out of cherry blossom timber from the backyard, sanding every edge until it was as smooth as silk.
Vincent visited every few days.
At first, his visits were formal—checking in on legal proceedings regarding Wesley’s insurance, or ensuring the house had everything it needed. But slowly, the formal mafia boss began to change. He stopped wearing his dark, intimidating suits when he visited, opting instead for comfortable sweaters. He brought books on art and history for Meredith, spent hours sitting by the fire listening to Harold’s stories of the old days, and brought small, thoughtful gifts that showed he had been paying attention to every detail of Meredith’s life.
One afternoon in late January, as a heavy snowstorm raged outside, Vincent sat with Meredith in the sunroom.
She was eight months pregnant now, her bump large and round. She was glowing, her cheeks full and healthy, her eyes no longer carrying the shadows of constant exhaustion.
"You look happy," Vincent remarked, watching her trace the grain of the wooden crib Harold had just finished.
"I am," Meredith said softly. She looked up at him, her gaze clear and warm. "I miss Wesley every day. I always will. But for the first time, I don't feel terrified when I think about the future. I feel... grateful."
Vincent nodded slowly. "Wesley was a good man. The reports my investigators gathered spoke very highly of him. He was honest, hard-working, and he loved you deeply."
"He did," Meredith said, a soft smile touching her lips. "He used to tell me that good things take time, but they always find their way to you if you keep the light on." She paused, looking at Vincent. "You kept the light on for us, Vincent."
Vincent looked down at his hands, unused to such unearned praise. "I just did what should have been done a long time ago."
"No," Meredith insisted gently, reaching out and placing her hand over his. Her skin was warm, her touch gentle. "You didn't have to do any of this. You could have just sent a check or bought Harold a house and walked away. But you stayed. You cared."
Vincent looked at her hand resting on his. A strange, powerful emotion tightened in his chest—a feeling he had never experienced in his cold, calculated world. For thirty-three years, people had looked at him with fear, respect, or greed.
Meredith looked at him as if he were simply a man worth knowing.
Before he could answer, Meredith suddenly gasped, her hand tightening around his.
Vincent’s posture stiffened immediately, his eyes wide with panic. "What is it? Is it the baby?"
Meredith let out a breathless laugh, taking his hand and pressing it directly against the side of her belly. "Feel," she whispered.
Beneath Vincent’s palm, a distinct, powerful kick pressed against the skin. Then another.
Vincent sat frozen, his breath catching in his throat. He had faced armed men, corrupt politicians, and rival syndicates without ever losing his composure. But feeling the tiny, fierce life moving beneath his hand brought an overwhelming wave of emotion that threatened to break through his defenses.
He looked up at Meredith, his eyes shiny with uncharacteristic moisture.
May you like
"That's... incredible," he whispered.
"She likes you," Meredith said softly, her eyes holding his. "I think she knows you're protecting us."
