Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN I SHOULD HAVE HATED
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Vincent wanted to refuse.
Immediately.
“No negotiation.”
Rebecca Sloan disagreed.
“We use it.”
Vincent looked at her like she had suggested setting fire to the building.
“He’ll kill her.”
“He may kill her anyway.”
Sophia’s frightened voice still echoed in my head.
I should have hated her.
Part of me did.
She had looked me in the eye and pretended sympathy while helping dismantle my marriage.
She had watched me question myself.
She had used Vincent’s silence against me.
But Sophia had also left evidence.
She had tried to confess.
And now Angelo had her.
“We help her,” I said.
Vincent turned.
“Claire.”
“We help her.”
“You don’t owe Sophia anything.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“But I owe myself the ability to sleep afterward.”
Rebecca arranged the operation.
Angelo demanded the exchange take place at an abandoned freight terminal near Calumet River.
Midnight.
Vincent was supposed to bring the notebook alone.
Naturally, nobody intended to follow those instructions.
For once, I stayed behind without arguing.
I was pregnant.
I was a target.
And despite my impressive recent habit of walking directly toward danger, I wasn’t stupid.
Madison arrived at Teresa’s house an hour before Vincent left.
She hugged me so tightly I squeaked.
Then she turned and slapped Vincent.
Marco looked away.
Vincent barely reacted.
Madison pointed at him.
“That was for divorcing her.”
“Understood.”
She slapped him again.
“That was for making her cry.”
“Madison,” I said.
She looked at me.
“What? I had two scheduled.”
Vincent rubbed his jaw.
“Anything else?”
Madison considered it.
“Ask me later.”
To my horror, I laughed.
Vincent did too.
Just once.
For a moment, we were normal people in a small kitchen.
Then midnight approached.
Vincent put on a black coat.
No tie.
No expensive suit.
He tucked the fake notebook beneath his arm.
I followed him to the front door.
“Come back.”
He looked at me.
“I will.”
“Don’t promise things you can’t control.”
His expression softened.
“Then I’ll say this instead.”
He reached toward me, then stopped before touching me.
“I will do everything I can.”
Better.
I nodded.
He started to leave.
“Vincent.”
He turned.
“You asked if the baby could have your last name.”
His face changed.
“I remember.”
“If you come back tonight…”
I paused.
“…ask me again someday.”
Something moved through his expression.
Hope.
Small.
Terrified.
Then he left.
The next two hours were unbearable.
Rebecca’s team had a live feed through a transmitter hidden in Vincent’s coat.
I wasn’t supposed to hear it.
I made Marco let me.
Angelo arrived with four men.
Sophia was alive.
Bruised.
Terrified.
Vincent handed over the fake notebook.
Angelo laughed.
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Frequently.”
Even through the audio, Vincent sounded calm.
Angelo ordered someone to check the pages.
Seconds passed.
Then shouting.
The notebook was fake.
Everything exploded.
Gunfire.
Federal agents.
Men yelling.
My hands shook.
“Vincent?”
No answer.
I stood.
Marco blocked the door.
“Sit down.”
“I can’t hear him.”
“Sit.”
Then a gunshot sounded through the feed.
A grunt.
Silence.
My knees weakened.
“Vincent?”
Nothing.
Madison grabbed my arm.
Then Rebecca’s voice crackled.
“Target secured.”
Another voice.
“Sophia recovered.”
I could barely breathe.
“What about Vincent?”
Static.
“Where is Vincent?”
Finally, Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face gave nothing away.
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“I understand.”
He ended the call.
I couldn’t speak.
Marco looked at me.
“He’s alive.”
My legs nearly collapsed.
“He took a bullet through the shoulder.”
I sat down hard.
“But he’s alive.”
Twenty minutes later, I was in the SUV before anyone could stop me.
At Northwestern Memorial Hospital, security tried to keep me from the trauma floor.
Vincent’s name solved that problem.
So did mine.
Mrs. Moretti?
The nurse asked.
For once, I didn’t correct her.
Vincent was awake when I entered.
Pale.
Angry.
His left shoulder was bandaged.
“You came.”
“Obviously.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I stared at him.
“You got shot.”
“I noticed.”
“You are impossible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I walked closer.
My eyes filled.
“You promised to do everything you could.”
“I did.”
“You forgot ducking.”
He smiled weakly.
Then his eyes dropped to my stomach.
“Is the baby okay?”
“Yes.”
Only after asking did he seem to remember himself.
His expression shifted.
“Claire…”
I sat beside him.
He didn’t touch me.
He had become strangely careful about that.
Maybe because we were divorced.
Maybe because he finally understood that wanting access to someone was not the same as having the right.
“Sophia?” I asked.
“Safe.”
“She talked?”
“Immediately.”
“About Angelo?”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s face darkened.
“She said he killed my grandmother.”
My breath caught.
“And my father’s illness?”
“No proof.”
I nodded.
Some truths might never arrive cleanly.
Vincent looked tired.
I reached for his hand.
It was the first time I had touched him voluntarily since the divorce.
His fingers closed around mine.
Carefully.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
This time, I didn’t tell him to stop saying it.
I just sat there.
After a while, his thumb moved across my knuckles.
“Can I ask something?”
“What?”
“The baby.”
I waited.
“If it’s a girl…”
His voice became rough.
“Would Emilia be too much?”
My throat tightened.
“Middle name.”
His eyes closed.
A tear slipped sideways into his hair.
“Middle name is enough.”
That was when I understood something dangerous.
I could forgive Vincent someday.
May you like
But forgiveness was not the same as going back.
And if he wanted a second chance, he would have to build something entirely new.
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