Chapter 7 - The Night Everything Burned
Vincent moved us before sunrise.
Not to the Moretti mansion.
That surprised me.
Instead, he took Lily and me to a secure apartment above one of his hotels in downtown Chicago.
The entire top floor could be locked independently.
Private elevator.
Reinforced doors.
Security teams below.
I hated it.
But I understood.
"How long?"
"Until Luca Vitale is found."
Vincent placed Lily's crib beside my bed.
"Days?"
"I hope."
"Weeks?"
"Possibly."
I looked at him.
"This is what I was afraid of."
"I know."
"No, Vincent. Look around."
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Armed men outside.
Locked elevators.
"This is your world."
His face tightened.
"It's the part I'm trying to leave."
"But it followed us."
"Yes."
No excuses.
That made it difficult to stay angry.
Vincent slept on the sofa outside our room.
Every night.
He could have taken one of six bedrooms.
He chose the sofa because it was closest to Lily.
Three days passed.
Then six.
Luca Vitale remained missing.
Federal agents believed he had crossed into Canada.
Vincent did not.
"Luca doesn't run," he told Matteo.
"What does he do?"
"Waits."
On the seventh night, the fire alarm sounded.
I woke instantly.
Smoke entered beneath the door.
"Lily."
I ran to her crib.
Vincent burst into the room.
"Emily!"
"She's here."
"Take her."
He wrapped a wet towel around Lily's carrier.
The hallway outside was filling with smoke.
Security radios crackled.
"Fire on forty-one."
We were on forty-three.
"Elevators disabled."
Vincent grabbed my hand.
"Stairs."
We moved toward the emergency exit.
A security guard opened it.
Smoke rolled upward.
Then gunshots sounded below.
Vincent pushed me behind him.
"This isn't a fire."
My blood turned cold.
Luca.
The attack had been planned to force evacuation.
Vincent pulled a handgun from beneath his jacket.
I hated seeing it.
But that night, I was grateful.
"Stay behind me."
We moved upward instead of down.
Rooftop.
The plan was helicopter evacuation.
Halfway there, another man appeared above us.
Security fired.
Chaos exploded.
Lily screamed.
I covered her head.
Vincent pushed us against the concrete wall.
Then his body jerked.
He made a sound I will never forget.
"Vincent!"
Blood spread across his shoulder.
He had been shot.
Again.
He stayed standing.
"Move."
"No."
"Emily!"
"I'm not leaving you."
"Take Lily!"
Another shot struck concrete.
Vincent grabbed my face.
"Listen to me."
His eyes were fierce.
"If something happens to me, you take her and go."
"No."
"Emily."
"No."
"Please."
That word.
The same word he had texted after returning to an empty house.
I stared at him.
Then security reached us.
They pulled us toward the roof.
The helicopter arrived eight minutes later.
Vincent collapsed only after Lily and I were inside.
I held pressure against his shoulder during the flight.
His blood covered my hands.
"Stay awake."
"I'm awake."
"You're closing your eyes."
"You're loud."
"You deserve worse."
He almost smiled.
Then his eyes closed.
"Vincent!"
The hospital became chaos.
He went into surgery.
The bullet had damaged muscle but missed major arteries.
He would survive.
I sat beside Lily in a private waiting room wearing clothing stained with her father's blood.
Isabella arrived.
She looked at me.
Then at Lily.
Then hugged both of us.
"He'll be fine."
I nodded.
But I cried anyway.
Three hours later, the surgeon appeared.
"Mr. Moretti is stable."
My knees nearly gave out.
When I entered his room, Vincent was awake.
Barely.
His shoulder was bandaged.
He looked at me.
"Lily?"
"Fine."
His eyes closed in relief.
"You?"
"Fine."
He opened them again.
"Good."
I sat beside him.
"You got shot."
"Observant."
"Don't make jokes."
"Sorry."
Silence.
Then I began crying.
Vincent looked alarmed.
"Emily."
"You idiot."
"I know."
"You stood between us and a gun."
"Of course."
"Don't say of course."
"Why?"
"Because it shouldn't be normal."
His expression softened.
"No."
"It shouldn't."
I took his hand.
"I thought you were going to die."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't get to apologize for being shot."
"Apparently I apologize for everything now."
I laughed through tears.
Then I leaned forward and kissed him.
Not softly.
Not briefly.
Vincent froze.
Then his good hand touched my cheek.
When we separated, both of us breathed differently.
"That," he said quietly, "felt bigger than Christmas."
"Shut up."
He smiled.
Luca Vitale was arrested the following morning.
The attack accelerated Vincent's exit from organized crime.
Within six months, he transferred questionable operations to independent ownership or shut them down entirely.
He cooperated through attorneys with several investigations.
Nobody could pretend the Moretti name suddenly became innocent.
But Vincent changed what he controlled.
Most importantly, he changed what he wanted.
He wanted Lily.
He wanted me.
But he no longer demanded either.
Three weeks after the shooting, he returned to my house in Evanston.
His arm remained in a sling.
"I brought something."
I looked suspiciously at the envelope.
"If those are new divorce papers, that's dramatic."
"They're not."
Inside was the deed to the Moretti mansion.
Transferred entirely into my name.
I stared.
"What is this?"
"The house."
"Why?"
"So you'll never think staying with me means depending on me."
My throat tightened.
"Vincent—"
"If we divorce, it's yours."
"I don't want it."
"Then sell it."
"I don't want hundreds of millions of dollars either."
"It's not hundreds."
"That is not the point."
He smiled slightly.
"I know."
I handed the papers back.
"No."
His expression changed.
"No?"
"If we ever try again, we're not doing it because you give me property."
He nodded.
"Okay."
"We're not going back to the old house."
Another pause.
"Okay."
I blinked.
"You agree?"
"Yes."
"I hated that place."
"I know."
"You loved it."
"I loved what I thought it represented."
"What?"
"Proof that I could build something nobody could take."
He looked around my grandmother's tiny kitchen.
"Turns out people leave houses every day."
I smiled.
"So what now?"
Vincent sat.
"Whatever you decide."
That evening, I showed him the divorce papers.
Still unsigned.
He stared at them.
"I thought you filed."
"I didn't."
"Why?"
"I wasn't ready."
Hope appeared in his eyes.
I raised a hand.
"Don't."
It disappeared.
"I need conditions."
"Anything."
"Don't say anything."
He sighed.
"Right."
I continued.
"Therapy continues."
"Yes."
"No Sophia."
"Already done."
"Your criminal businesses remain closed."
"Yes."
"You don't make decisions about Lily without me."
"Yes."
"You don't buy your way out of emotional conversations."
"Harder."
I stared.
"But yes."
"And if you ever choose another woman's crisis over this family again—"
"I won't."
"Vincent."
He stopped.
"Sorry."
"If you do, there won't be a second separation."
"I understand."
I looked down at the papers.
"I don't know whether our marriage is repaired."
"Neither do I."
"But I don't want to end it yet."
His eyes became wet.
"Okay."
"For the next six months, we date."
He blinked.
"Date?"
"Yes."
"I'm your husband."
"Currently on probation."
He almost laughed.
"Where do I take you?"
"Somewhere without armed guards."
"That significantly reduces Chicago."
"Figure it out."
He did.
Our first date was at a small Italian restaurant twenty minutes from my house.
No private room.
No security visible.
No expensive gifts.
Vincent arrived carrying one flower.
A daisy.
I stared.
"What?"
"You once told me your father brought your mother daisies."
I had.
Three years earlier.
Vincent remembered.
Dinner lasted three hours.
We talked.
Actually talked.
About childhood.
Fear.
Lily.
My career.
His therapy.
Architecture.
"Your mother told me you wanted to study it."
He groaned.
"She had no right."
"You could still."
"I'm thirty-eight."
"So?"
"I run five companies."
"You also carve terrible rabbits."
He laughed.
"I could design buildings."
"Maybe."
For the first time, I saw a future that wasn't simply a repaired version of our past.
Something new.
And perhaps that was the only kind of marriage worth saving.
May you like
Not the one we had.
The one we might still build.
