Chapter 9 - Healing the Scars
The sun broke over the Greenwich hills like liquid gold, melting the fresh powder from the branches of the towering hemlock trees.
Inside the manor’s sunroom, the air was warm and smelled of fresh-brewed Colombian coffee, toasted brioche, and sweet strawberries. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the vast expanse of white lawns, where deer moved peacefully along the tree line.
Lily sat at a massive mahogany breakfast table, her feet swinging freely above the floor. She had swapped her thin navy coat for a butter-yellow cashmere sweater that was three sizes too big, and her hair had been brushed into neat, glossy ringlets by the housekeeper.
On the table in front of her was an enormous stack of buttermilk pancakes, dripping with warm maple syrup and topped with whipped cream. Barnaby sat upright beside her plate, propped against a silver sugar bowl.
“Mom,” Lily whispered, her eyes wide as she poked a pancake with her fork. “Are we in heaven?”
Clara sat beside her, wearing clean denim and a soft cream-colored cardigan. For the first time in seven years, the crushing weight of exhaustion had lifted from her posture. She looked ten years younger, though her eyes were still wide with the shock of how fast her reality had inverted.
“No, baby,” Clara said softly, smoothing down a stray curl on Lily’s forehead. “We’re not in heaven.”
“Is this the pirate ship?” Lily asked through a mouthful of pancake.
The door to the sunroom opened.
Dominic walked in. He had discarded his suit, wearing dark wool trousers and an open-collared navy shirt. He looked tired—the faint circles under his eyes betrayed thirty-six hours without sleep—but when his gaze landed on Lily and Clara, the severe lines of his face relaxed into something unrecognizable to anyone in Manhattan.
Lily stopped chewing. She looked at him with that same stubborn, analytical stare she had used in the lobby of Moretti Plaza.
“Mr. Moretti,” she said solemnly.
Dominic pulled out a chair beside her, sitting down slowly. “Lily.”
“Did you fix Mr. Hayes’ signature?”
Dominic’s lips twitched into a genuine, faint smile. “I did. Mr. Hayes has been permanently reassigned. He won't be signing any more papers.”
“Good,” Lily said with deep satisfaction. “He had bad manners.”
She went back to her pancakes, entirely satisfied that the universe had been set back on its proper axis.
Dominic turned his gaze to Clara.
She looked back at him, her amber eyes searching his face, looking for the ghost of the boy she had fallen in love with in Soho. She found him behind the scars.
“Lily,” Dominic said gently. “Would you mind if I borrowed your mother for a few minutes? Mrs. Gable made fresh cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. She said she needs someone to test the icing.”
Lily’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs. She grabbed Barnaby by the good ear and scampered off toward the kitchen door, her new wool socks sliding across the parquet floor before she disappeared with a joyful giggle.
The sunroom fell quiet.
Dominic stood up, walking over to the glass wall that looked out over the snow-covered lawn. Clara stood too, stepping up beside him, her shoulder brushing his sleeve.
“It’s over,” Dominic said quietly. “Vincent’s network has been dismantled. Hayes is in federal custody with enough evidence on him to guarantee he dies in a penitentiary. And every logistics contract I own has been placed under independent civilian oversight.”
Clara looked at him, surprised. “Civilian oversight? You’re giving up the ports?”
“I’m legitimizing everything,” Dominic said, turning to face her. “No more shadow accounts. No more off-the-books freight. My father lived in the dark, and his father died in it. I spent twenty years convincing myself that I could control the violence—that if I was smart enough, strong enough, I could keep the blood from splashing onto the things I loved.”
He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently taking hers. Clara didn't pull away this time. Her fingers curled around his, warm and steady.
“I was wrong,” Dominic whispered. “The violence almost took you seven years ago. And yesterday, it almost took my daughter. I will not raise Lily in the shadows, Clara. If you want to leave—if this house, my name, my world is too much for you—I will buy you an estate anywhere on earth. In Paris. In London. In New Zealand. I will give you fifty million dollars, and I will never force myself into your life.”
Clara stared at him, her chest rising and falling.
“You would let us walk away?” she asked, her voice trembling. “After searching for us for seven years?”
“I love you,” Dominic said simply. “I loved you when I was Nico the art buyer. I loved you when I thought you had run away. And I love you now. Real love doesn't hold hostages, Clara. It protects. If protecting you means letting you go... I will do it.”
Clara looked down at their joined hands—his large, scarred, and dangerous; hers small, calloused from hard labor, but soft against his skin.
She stepped closer, closing the distance between them, until her forehead rested against his chest, right over his beating heart.
“You idiot,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek and soaking into his dark shirt. “Did you really read those letters?”
Dominic wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his body, his chin resting against her hair. “I read all of them.”
“Then you know,” Clara whispered, her arms sliding around his waist, holding him with a fierce, unbreakable strength. “I never stopped looking for the ship, Dominic. I never stopped waiting for my pirate to come home.”
May you like
Dominic closed his eyes, burying his face in her neck, feeling the warmth of her breath against his skin. For the first time in thirty-nine years, the cold inside his chest was gone.
***
